


Lamp of Memory

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Series: How They Met Themselves [2]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Atlas CEO Rhys, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, M/M, Memory Loss, Psychological Trauma, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-02 22:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 42,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11519166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: One month after finding him again, Rhys visits Tim in Karamay.





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. This was originally conceived as a fun, fluffy follow-up to [How They Met Themselves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628043/chapters/19785451). Just a nice thing about Rhys and Tim going to a summer fair.
> 
> It... got away from me.
> 
> This takes place between the last two scenes of HTMT. Fair warning: if you haven't read the first story, you probably won't be able to follow this one.

The sun lurked low in the sky, and Tim could feel its fading gaze on the back of his neck. His shadow stretched out on the teeth-chopped grass before him, and then on the gravel paths that separated the north part of the town from the south part.

Batu stood outside the public house, one hand on her round hip, and the other held over her eyes. She gave him a suspicious look as he dropped the sack at her feet—or maybe it was just the sun in her eyes that made her squint at him.

"Not a bad haul today," Tim said. He dabbed at his temples with the tail of his bandana. She looked at his face and then away.

"Threshers? That’s all you’ve got.”

“Yeah, but I got a lot of ‘em.”

“Threshers've barely got any meat on their bones... or cartilage or whatever." She knelt down and twitched the strings until the sack's mouth opened wide, releasing the stench that had haunted Tim for the last hour. He wrinkled his nose.

"I liked that stew you made last time," he said.

"And they're a bitch to clean," she went on.

The sun was sinking fast and a few people were starting to stream towards Batu's place, no doubt thirsty after a long day's work. Tim felt his breath under the fabric of his mask and thought about joining them.

"I can help with prep, if you need it," Tim said, wiping his hands down. "It's been a pretty quiet day..." He trailed off at the look she gave him. "What?"

"Have you gone home at all?"

Tim's gaze automatically flicked to the rooftops. His little house was almost a full kilometer behind the town, currently out of sight. He thought about his ECHOtab, and the amount of work he hadn't accomplished recently. A drink sounded far more tempting.

Batu must've seen it in what little of his face remained visible. She clucked her tongue. "Go home. You work too slow, anyway."

"I don't really mind," Tim said.

Batu squinted up at him with a scowl. "Your visitor might."

* * *

Tim flinched when he heard ‘visitor’, but it had nothing to do with fear or dread. It wasn't a flinch like a dog might flinch at the first sign of a rolled up newspaper—it was a full bodied charge, like something reached into Tim's nervous system and plucked him like a string.

Tim was covered in dirt, scrapes and minor bruises, looking like neighbourhood trouble. Stubble on his face and a tear in his jeans.

But while a small part of himself wanted to stop and splash some water on his face, maybe jog into Huang's store and borrow his shaving kit, or at least run a comb through his hair, the rest of Tim couldn't be persuaded to slow down. Not even when hurt stabbed like a needle up his leg and into his knee with each step.

Because none of it mattered. Not when an armoured technical sat parked beside his bike. Not when he could hear the soft rumbling of someone else's voice in his front room. Not when he spotted his visitor through the window, cybernetic eye a-glow and a few projection screens floating above his golden palm like luminescent butterflies.

"...yes, I know, but what are the odds it'll happen again?" Pause. "No, I know. No. No, I—" Rhys rubbed his brow. "I didn't actually want the odds. Todd, my brain is half computer. If I wanted odds, I could calculate them—" His pacing circuit finally had him turned around at last, facing the front entrance, where Tim held the doorframe with both hands, leaning forward like he was about to fall inside.

That charge struck him again, but this time Tim didn't flinch, not even when Rhys' lips parted and his cheeks went pink. They stared at each other between the space of a breath and it was stupid, it was so stupid, that they could still be caught off guard like this. That the momentum of their crowded lives could pause, even for just a second, and that the whole world could actually snap into the background, like stage setting in an amateur play. Like it was the first time.

Each time, it felt like the first time.

"I'll call you back," Rhys said, dismissing the projections. Tim had his arms around his waist just as he heard Todd's tinny voice cut out mid-sentence, and Rhys had one hand tangled in his hair, cupping the back of his head, and they kissed, of course they kissed.

Tim wasn't of a poetic bent, and he didn't remember much of the romance novels he'd read as a youth, long before the life he chose gave that word barbs, made it taste like metal in his mouth, but now and then phrases would rise to the surface. Talk of gravity compelling people to get closer, talk of electricity shared between touches, of the earth trembling when things got really interesting. As if what drew two people together was a force of nature, or just as strong. Tim had always felt so helpless to it, even when it turned sour on him.

That sort of talk was for poets. Tim knew it wasn't gravity that pulled him to Rhys, but his own two hands. It wasn't electricity he felt when he pulled Rhys' shirt from his waistband and slipped his hand underneath the soft fabric to feel softer skin. He felt his own hunger, his own greed, his own giddy desperation. Like the first time all over again.

The earth didn't tremble when Rhys walked him backwards, when the back of Tim's knees hit the edge of his couch and he sat down hard, pulling Rhys after him. It didn't move any faster or slower when Rhys straddled his lap, ran his hands down Tim's chest, tugging at the hem of Tim's shirt until Tim obligingly raised his arms and he could tug the garment off. Not even when Tim fumbled with the buttons on Rhys' shirt, pushing it open, running one hand down his side, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of his stomach and into the sharp ridge of his hipbone.

The earth didn't tremble, but Tim might've, just a little.

"Hello," Rhys said, breathless and flushed, half-dressed and fully indecent on Tim's lap.

"Hi," Tim said, grinning. "You're early."

"Mm. Made arrangements with Yvette. I wanted to surprise you." He dropped kisses on Tim's neck, taking his time when he found a familiar spot under Tim's ear, a spot he knew made Tim's breath shudder and his hips jerk. He ground his hips shamelessly in response.

“Consider me surprised,” Tim said.

"You're a mess." Rhys pushed his hand through Tim's hair.

Tim hummed as he eased the strap of Rhys' belt loose, fingers brushing against the tented fabric.

"Like... actually filthy," Rhys said, mouthing at a fresh bruise. Tim snorted.

"Give me a break. I just finished work." He slipped his hand inside Rhys' slacks, palming his erection. He brushed his thumb against the head of his cock. Rhys made an undignified noise. Tim's grin widened. "I'm not the only one who's filthy."

Rhys' laughter was a soft exhalation against his heated skin. "You should shower," he said.

Tim removed his hand, ignoring Rhys' disappointed groan. "Good idea."

He stood up, gripping Rhys' thighs. Rhys squealed with laughter, wrapping his legs tight around Tim's waist, throwing his arms over his shoulder. Tim walked them both from the room.

* * *

It was dark when they finished up in the shower. A trail of water lead across the tiled floor and into the bedroom. A fluffy blue towel lay at the foot of the bed, a thread-bare beige towel falling a second later to join it.

Rhys' damp skin pebbled, because Tim always kept his room a little cold. Rhys pulled Tim close and used him like a blanket. Neither of them were young anymore, but it didn't matter. They'd just gotten clean, and that didn't matter either. The sky could fall around them and it wouldn't matter. Let them enjoy their honeymoon phase.

Time passed and eventually, after a few false starts, a few muffled giggles and quiet moans, they managed to pry themselves apart. Tim's stomach growled a reminder of everything they'd been neglecting. Rhys, face half-buried in Tim's pillow, grinned up at him.

"Dinner?" he said.

As he fished around the floor for his clean laundry, Tim told Rhys that he'd been spending a few shifts in Batu's kitchen when his other work was slow. She paid him in leftovers, beer, and in occasional instruction.

"You're a real chef now?" Rhys asked, still in bed and utterly unhurried.

"I've picked up a few tricks," Tim confirmed as he pulled on a pair of jeans.

He left to start on their dinner. Rhys sat against Tim’s headboard for a while, casting his gaze around the room. He should get dressed, he knew. He had a few ideas about what he would like to wear.

"Can't believe how different things look around here," Rhys half-shouted as he hunted for his briefs.

"Different how?" Tim half-shouted back. Rhys could hear the knocking of a knife on a wooden cutting board. Rhys pulled open on of the dresser drawers as quietly as he could.

"Everything looked so gloomy before,” he replied as he searched. “I couldn't even see ten feet in front of me last time I drove up."

Rhys found what he was looking for rather quickly. A quick sniff check confirmed that what he’d selected was worn, but it was clean. Rhys closed his eyes for a moment and pictured Tim sitting at his desk, tapping away at his ECHOtab, with a mug of tea at his elbow.

He pulled it on and left the bedroom. Tim was at the counter, his back to Rhys. Rhys padded over to stand beside him, trailing his hand across the small of Tim's back.

Tim smiled. "Well, it was the rainy season. We don't call it that for nothin'."

"Oh, 'we' don't, don't we? You're an old-timer Karamay...er now, are you?" Rhys asked.

"Hey, I've been here a while now. Four months is a long time."

"Five months," Rhys said. Tim still hadn’t looked over.

"Right." Tim dumped the chopped vegetables into a bowl and set it aside. He dug out his fat-bellied pan and set it onto his stove. Rhys watched him while he worked.

"Anyway, it was a nice—" Tim looked over, finally, and his words died in his mouth, entirely forgotten.

Rhys bit his lip. He'd put on one of Tim's sweaters. It was too big for him.

Tim stared at him. Rhys met his gaze, tried not to smile. A moment passed between them and Tim looked as if he wanted to make a meal out of Rhys.

"I see you found my clothes," Tim said at last.

"Hope it's not a problem. I thought this shirt looked good on me." Rhys hopped up onto the counter, flashing his long, bare legs. He hadn’t bothered to find slacks. The pairing of Tim’s sweater with a pair of Rhys’ briefs seemed good enough.

"What do you think?" Rhys asked.

Tim looked like he agreed. Rhys crossed his legs, ensuring Tim could see the bruises he’d left on Rhys inner thighs.

"I think you're asking for trouble," Tim said, his voice rough. Rhys' smile widened. He curled his hand around Tim’s neck and he leaned forward.

It was only when the dry pan began to smoke that Tim pulled himself away.

"It was a nice drive." Rhys swung his legs while Tim cursed and killed the heat. "Things get so green out here. It's nothing like Opportunity."

"You’re still calling it Opportunity?” Tim asked. “I thought you were going to change the name."

"We are. We're putting it to a committee vote later this year." Rhys pulled the neck of Tim's sweater up from where it'd slipped over his shoulder.

Tim kept glancing at Rhys, at his lips. “What, um. What name are you going to vote for?”

“Rhysville.” Tim snorted and shook his head. “Rhysylvania?”

“There’s no forests around,” Tim said. Rhys frowned.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Never mind. What about Rhysenberg?” Tim suggested.

“Rhyston.”

“Village on the Rhys.”

Rhys wrinkled his nose. “That makes it sound like you’ve buried me in the city’s foundations,” he said. Tim shrugged. "Hey, can I help?"

"Yeah, keep an eye on the pan. Let's see if we can't control ourselves long enough to keep from burning the place down."

"If you insist."

Rhys didn't move from his perch, forcing Tim to work around him. He got the feeling he didn't mind. With Rhys so easily within reach, easy enough that Tim could squeeze his knee, run his hand down his thigh, and lean in for a quick kiss, he didn't seem inclined to complain.

"Things busy back at Atlas, I take it?" Tim asked as he poured sweet oil into pan.

Rhys watched him work, his playful smile retreating. "Yeah, always. Seems to me like I wake up to fifty new hire requests requiring my approval. Every department is expanding. Opportunity's spoiling us rotten. We don't just have Hyperion's old devices, we have their old research projects. There's nearly an entire yottabyte of data on the mainframe. You wouldn't believe how happy development was when the infosec team recovered that info. They must've drank half a planet's worth of booze."

Tim watched the oil as it began to shimmer, his jaw flexing. Rhys realised belatedly what he’d just said. How Tim might reservations about the things they could dig up in Hyperion’s last and greatest project. Rhys hadn’t mentioned a word about Epimetheus or Pyrphoros, and Tim hadn’t asked, but it must’ve been on his mind.

"We're being careful," Rhys said. "Everything's vetted. We've got an entire team dedicated to combing through what we find. There's no hidden surprises." Rhys leaned closer, and kissed Tim on the cheek. "I wouldn't ask you back if I wasn't absolutely sure it was safe."

Tim half-turned and returned Rhys’ kiss to the corner of his lips. "Thank you," he said, reaching blindly for the chopped mutton he'd set aside.

Rhys leaned back on his palms and waited for the hissing and spitting to die down before he spoke again. "Bell's been asking after you. She wanted me to tell you that she misses having an instructor."

"Athena could do it," Tim said, watching the meat spit. "It might be a good fit for her. I know she's bored and between jobs. Janey told me she's useless in the garage."

Rhys chewed on his lower lip. "You don't want to do it anymore?" he asked. Tim gave the pan a small shake. "You don't have to, of course. Like I said before, we're growing faster than I can keep up with. There's definitely something—"

"Rhys."

Tim didn't even sound angry, but Rhys shut his mouth anyway.

"I'm still thinking about it. Okay?" Tim said. He didn't look at Rhys. He looked down at their dinner, at the pink strips that were turning brown under his watch.

"I know that." Rhys shifted, Tim's too-big sweater slipping down his smooth shoulder once more. "I know. I'm sorry. I just..."

Tim turned and kissed Rhys' temple, just above his port. "I know, stretch. It's okay."

Rhys nodded, but the smile had slipped from his face.

"I just miss you," Rhys said. He tried to say it casually, factually, like he was reporting on the weather. But Tim had wised up to his act.

"In case the hour I spend talking to you every night and the hundred messages I send you all day didn't clue you in, I miss you too." Tim nudged him. "I miss you all the time. But this isn't about you. It's... It's just that I've never lived like this before. I've never been on my own, and in one place, for this long. I feel like I'm building something here."

"And you don't want to give that up." Rhys nodded. He wouldn't look at Tim. "I get that."

Tim pulled the pan off of the heat and set it aside. He stepped in front of Rhys, bracketing him with both arms.

"Hey," he said, quietly. "Look at me."

Rhys did, and Tim kissed him again, soft and without urgency. Rhys unbent slowly, wrapping his arms around Tim's shoulders. Tim rubbed his back until the tension drained away.

"The last time I threw in my lot with someone like this, things... didn't work out great for me," Tim said, once they'd broken apart.

Rhys huffed. "That's an understatement."

"It's nothing to do with you, I swear. I just need you to give me some time, okay?" Tim asked. Rhys kissed him again.

"I'll give you anything you want," he said.

* * *

It sounded banal to say you don't like uncertainty. As far as Rhys knew, nobody liked it. People liked to know what the next day would look like when they put their heads down to sleep. Corporations made billions, built empires, on the promise of their ability to deliver a stable tomorrow for the consumer.

Rhys knew the little miseries of his childhood didn't make him special. Take a group of ten people and at least five of them will tell you about their parents' divorce, or about their mother's alcoholism, or her inability to hold down a job for longer than ten fucking minutes.

Moving around a lot worked out in the end, didn't it? Tim joked, but Rhys really did know how to make friends and influence people. It was all about manipulation of expectations. He could trick people into thinking he was what they wanted, whether it be in a friend, or a coworker, or an investment opportunity, or something more. He could build a fortune with those skills. He did just that.

The ironic thing was, Rhys knew what Tim meant when he said he felt like he was building something. He understood exactly why Tim was reluctant to pull up roots. Rhys knew it because he knew what that longing felt like, for something strong to settle down on. A solid foundation, something unbreakable.

He knew it, and he knew it was petty and selfish to feel hurt that Tim was trying to build something without him.

It wasn't Tim's fault that he'd gone for months trying to get over Rhys, while Rhys nearly drove himself and all his friends insane trying to remember Tim. It wasn't Tim's fault that Rhys spent sleepless nights combing through the ECHOnet, desperate for any mention of a man without a face, of someone named Tim Lawrence, just to prove to himself that it wasn't a dream, that he was real, that it'd happened. Rhys drank rice wine almost exclusively for a month, just because the flavour kept bringing him back to a field and an electric feeling of potential, an energy that made him giddy to think about.

And the dreams…

It got so bad at one point that, after one too many nights spent avoiding sleep, trying to remember things his friends wouldn’t tell him about, Rhys cancelled his meetings for the rest of the day. Unprecedented. He tracked down a bottle of rice wine (Eunjoo had taken to hiding them from him) and spent the night on the line with Vaughn, just trying to understand.

"Why did I let him go?" he lamented, voice thick with drink and sick with longing. "He was so... I miss him so much. Why did he leave? What happened afterwards?"

"You have to give it some time, bro," Vaughn said, reluctant and sad. "It'll come back. The doctors said—"

Rhys cut the line. He was tired of hearing about what his doctors said.

(He called Vaughn fifteen seconds later to apologise.)

Rhys could live with an uncertain future because he had to. Everyone did. But an uncertain past was too much.

He wondered if he should tell Tim about the hours he'd spent inside his own head, running through the same recovered memory over and over until he could pull associations from it. It had been like pulling a thread, except that wasn't right because that would only take something apart. And anyway, pulling a thread is easy. Things always come apart. It had been like trying to stitch his favourite suit back together after he'd forgotten the pattern, or that he even loved it in the first place.

He wondered if Tim would appreciate knowing how hard Rhys fought with himself, with everyone, to save even the smallest detail from the ether. If it would make him feel a little better about coming back to Atlas, to the home Rhys wanted to build for them.

When Tim told him it'd been a long time since he'd had anything like Karamay, Rhys had to stop himself from arguing.

You had it with me, he wanted to say. I made you a home, too. I'll make it again. I'm not like he was.

But Tim wanted time. He wanted patience. Rhys could give him both, even if it was hard. He really would give him anything.

* * *

_THEN_

The first memory Rhys recovered after waking up from his ALCH3MY-enduced coma wasn't much of anything.

They'd been drilling him for a while, asking after every little detail he could recall. They'd been at it for days, hours at a time.

Where did you grow up? Where did you go to school? What was your major? Who is your COO? Where did you meet Yvette? Where did you meet Vaughn? How did you meet them, were they together, were you at school, did you apply to your first jobs together, what was the first company you worked for?

Do you remember Helios?

He endured it all, patience varying on a day-by-day basis. They would always let him eat first, because it could take so long. By that time, they would even let him walk through the building. They conducted their interrogations in hallways, in cafeterias, and once on the roof.

It was there where he told Yvette and Vaughn what he remembered about the vault key, about Fiona and Sasha, about the Gortys project, Helios, and the rest. They'd sent the doctors away for that session.

By the end of it Rhys was on the ground, legs tucked under him, back against the railing. He listened to the wind and the marching loaderbots below. His friends sat on either side of him, warm and close.

That same night, after they'd left him in his presidential suite, he fell asleep with Helios breaking apart around him and maybe that's why he dreamt—

_—of Helios but not any hall Rhys had ever seen, everything looked too nice for the likes of him. He marched past floor-to-ceiling windows and there wasn't another soul around until he came to a sealed door which opened after a quick scan._

_Inside he found a man curled up in the corner of the most expensive-looking apartment he'd ever seen. The man's head was bowed and his face was obscured and he was shaking and Rhys felt an overwhelming surge of anger, frustration, despair, and he wanted to march over there and yank that man up and slam him against the wall and put his hands around his neck and make him cry like he always cried but he was already in tears and there was no sport to kicking him while he was down and it wouldn't stop what was already happening, this panic that felt so foreign and so familiar, because it was happening again. He was losing another one._

_Not this time. Not this one. He'd keep him._

And then, in the way of dreams, things changed and _Rhys_ _found a man standing in a wasteland field, surrounded by snow and broken pieces of Rhys' own home, the dome high above shattered beyond repair and the wind that blew through had arctic teeth. A man with no face and blood on his arms stared up at the sky, and if Rhys looked up he might've seen the shadows approaching through the storm, but he only had eyes for the man in front of him because he'd been lied to again, goddammit, tricked again, after everything he'd gone through and everything he'd lost and everything he'd given up, that this man should come back and ruin it, take it away from him—_

Rhys woke up, his heart racing and angrier than he'd been in years.

* * *

_NOW_

When the mood turned quiet and contemplative, he didn't know what to do. He hadn't come out all this way to make things awkward. He wanted to make Tim happy, and he knew one sure-fire way to do that.

He kept letting Tim's sweater slip down his smooth shoulder. He rubbed the side of his foot against Tim's thigh as he worked. He stole kisses every time Tim reached over for the next ingredient, and Tim's smile grew back. He let Rhys get away with his campaign of distraction, his naked manipulation, without complaint.

"You need to behave yourself," Tim said, even as he ran his fingers down Rhys' neck.

"Or else what?" Rhys challenged. He hadn't played this sort of game in a long time, not since Sasha. It was gratifying to know he wasn't out of practice.

Despite their worst efforts, dinner came together without burning, although there were a few close calls. It's mostly Rhys' fault, and he can accept that.

Tim lamented the dinner wasn't as good as he wanted it to be.

"I like it," Rhys said. The meat was tender enough for a stir-fry and the sauce was rich.

"I'm learning some new recipes. Batu's expertise is really stews, but she promised to teach me how to make dumplings. Maybe next time I'll give it a shot."

"Honestly, you don't need to go out of your way. I'm happy with whatever you make," Rhys said.

Tim hummed as he spooned the rest of his rice into his bowl. "Someone once told me the whole point of doing something nice for someone is that it isn't necessary," he said. "And anyway, I like doing it. Although maybe next time my kitchen helper will be a little more helpful and a little less of a tease."

Rhys ran his ankle up Tim's calf. "That's unlikely."

They went back to Tim's room and they took their time. The urgency they'd felt that first hour (or had it been two hours?) had passed, and in its place Rhys felt something warm in his chest, warm the way a metal chassis is warm after the engine’s been shut off.

Rhys removed his arm, but kept Tim's sweater on, just because he enjoyed how much Tim enjoyed it. Such a primal thing, that flare of possessiveness. Rhys would be lying to say he didn't love having someone feel that way about him. Despite the progressive age they lived in, it was something he only ever witnessed in his boyfriends. Wearing his girlfriend's clothes had a different (but still enjoyable) effect entirely.

They lay side-by-side in the dim light of Tim's bedside lamp. Rhys felt tired, and he guessed from the sleepy list of Tim's eyelids, that he wasn't the only one, but neither of them talked about turning the light off. Rhys talked about Atlas. Tim listened, tracing his fingers over the edges of Rhys' tattoos.

Rhys wondered if he shouldn't talk about something else, but when he cast his mind to other subjects, he realised he didn't have much else in the tank. Atlas was his life, and he suspected it always would be. He wondered if that made him sad. He wondered if that made Tim sad.

"You sure you're not stretching yourself too thin?” Tim asked during a lull in the conversation. “You look better now," he went on, brushing a lock of hair from Rhys' forehead. "But I worry about you. Before you looked kind of... tired."

Rhys had been tired. He'd spent the four months prior to that meeting trying to fill an empty space in his history with the same single-minded dedication he’d used to rebuild himself after Helios fell. He didn't know if Tim needed to know that. After the last time he revealed something he didn't know if Tim should know (and Tim had folded in on himself like a house of cards, collapsing into a panic attack right in front of Rhys, because of Rhys), he didn’t feel compelled to share too much.

"I feel better now," Rhys said instead. He caught Tim's hand and kissed his fingertips. "I feel amazing, as a matter of fact."

Oh Jesus, the look on Tim's face at those words. When Tim looked like that—smiled at Rhys like that, like Rhys was a star that had come to brighten Tim's dark sky—he looked nothing like the man he'd been sculpted into. Jack couldn't live in a face that looked like that. Dopey and love-dumb. Had he looked at Rhys like that before? Had Rhys just missed it, hidden behind that damn mask?

What could he do in that moment but kiss Tim silly? Just as dopey, just as love-struck.

After a while, Tim turned out the lights. Longer still before they fell asleep.

* * *

Rhys woke to the sound of knocking and the sunlight in his eyes. He swatted at his space above his ear, his cybernetic eye opening his ECHO frequency. He mumbled a 'hello' before he fully understood what he was hearing. And even then, it took a kiss behind his ear and Tim's sleepy, "It's the door, sweetheart." before he put the pieces together.

He felt it when Tim slipped out of the bed, an absence that left him cold and made him frown. He watched Tim pull on his pair of work jeans and step out of the bedroom with a pang of disappointment. He made a note to let Tim know about his complaints later.

He rolled onto his back and stretched. Little aches and pains made themselves known, twangs in his leg and back muscles as if he'd spent the last day working out. Rhys grinned.

He listened to the quiet rumble of Tim's voice in the next room and thought about starting his day with a quick shower. Maybe less quick if he could talk Tim into joining him.

Tim returned moments later, just as Rhys was seriously considering getting up. His skin had gone bright red right from the roots of his hair right down to his neck.

"I should've put on a shirt," he said, pushing his hair back. Rhys considered his neck and chest and all the little red and purple bruises he'd left there. "I look like a porn star."

Rhys tried to feel guilty about that. "You look fantastic," he said. He knew was still grinning. "You'd look better without those jeans, though."

Tim flopped down beside him, although he did not strip first. Inconsiderate. Rhys made a soft noise of protest as he rolled over and grabbed at his waistband.

"Hey." Tim took Rhys' wandering hand in his own. Rhys scowled. "Quit pouting. I've got something to tell you. Nothing horrible," he said quickly as Rhys' stomach dropped like a stone. "Sorry—everything's fine. It's just, I forgot I'd agreed to doing something this weekend for Miqa."

"Who?"

"Carpenter slash sort-of city planner. She built this house."

"You have to work?" Rhys asked.

"Not exactly. I'm not getting paid for this. There's this festival thing all the surrounding settlements have." Tim sighed. "It's kind of a big deal. I said I'd help with the set up. Sorry. After you came out all this way..."

"A festival?" Rhys' human eye brightened. "With food? And music?"

"Both, probably. It's not 'til tomorrow." Tim hesitated, tracing the edges of Rhys’ tattoo around his areola. "I don't know how long you were thinking of sticking around, but if you were interested... I mean, if you wanted to meet everyone in town, this'd be a good way to do it."

"That sounds amazing! I mean, spending the whole day in bed sounded pretty great too, but if you're saying that's off the table..."

Tim laughed. "Sorry, stretch."

Rhys kissed him on the tip of his nose. "You can make it up to me."

Tim hummed and chased Rhys' lips with his own. He kissed sweetly, and without urgency, running his hand down Rhys' side until it came to rest on his hip. Rhys still felt exhausted, but Tim's teasing fingers summoned some interest.

"When..."

'When do you have to leave' he wanted to ask, but his self-control collapsed a breath after the first word and he kissed Tim again and again. He should find this tiring by now, and maybe one day, a long, long time from now, he might. But it's been a month since they finally reconnected, reunited. Four interminable weeks since Rhys could finally put the name to a face. He slipped Tim a little tongue, a tasteful amount, like they were kissing in public. And then he got less tasteful because they weren't in public and the noise Tim made was too delicious not to pursue.

"When do you have to leave?" Rhys asked, minutes later.

"An hour. Well, less than that, now," Tim said. His pupils were blown wide and his hands hadn't left Rhys' skin, not once since he lay down.

Rhys rolled Tim over, straddling his hips. "Well, then," he said. "We'd better hurry."

They were still late.

* * *

_THEN_

After they got what they could from Rhys, they finally decided to let him hear some answers for a change. It took days to set the meeting up, because these things couldn't be rushed, or so they told him.

Yvette was there, and did most of the talking. Rhys’ doctors stood behind her, in the shadows of all the machines, their ECHOtablets in their hands.

Rhys remembered the way the Atlas doctor's glasses caught the light, partially obscuring her eyes. It left him unnerved, like he'd caught sight of an unfamiliar face in a familiar photograph.

"There's not much we can tell you," Yvette began. "But there's some things you need to know."

"Atlas is gone," Rhys said. He'd figured it out a few days before.

"Yes and no," she said. "Our compound is damaged, maybe beyond repair.” She winced. “But the company is fine.”

“Are you finally going to tell me what happened?” Rhys asked, sounding tired.

Yvette nodded, and didn’t even look over to the doctors. “There was... an attack."

She paused here, and this time she did spare a glance to the machines that told everyone just how Rhys was doing. Rhys couldn't tell if she was stalling her way through a difficult conversation, or if she was concerned she'd be interrupted by the docs. The latter, he decided, seemed more likely. Yvette had almost certainly already planned this meeting. She might've even written his lines. It was the sort of thing she would do.

"Is that what happened to me? I was hurt in the attack?" Rhys licked his lips. "Was my arm damaged?"

"Yes. That's... broadly speaking, yes, that's what happened."

"Who attacked us?"

"Some gangs from the Dusts," she said, her voice gaining confidence. They were clearly on script. "In the months before, you... made an enemy of them."

"That sounds like me." Rhys sighed. They wouldn't tell him any specifics. They—the doctors, mostly—wanted him to recover the memories naturally, through his own attempts.

He tried it now. Gangs in the Dusts… He’d been out in the Dusts, before. Looking for something.

“Malady,” he said. “There was a woman named Malady, and she had a bandit gang…”

Yvette’s expression lit up. “That’s right,” she said. “Very good, Rhys.”

Rhys smiled and tried to feel heartened, but Malady and the Dusts happened before… whatever they’d driven out of his head.

Rhys knew ALCH3MY was dangerous. He wondered what drove his friends to using it on him.

Part of him already knew. ALCH3MY had been designed to eradicate AI data. Who else could worm his way back into his head? Who else would make his friends so desperate that they would risk his life?

But no one spoke his name out loud, even as it hung in the air like a body strung up as a warning to others.

Or like _streamers for a birthday after the party had ended and they were all seated around a dirty table and they were all looking at him, but he looked down and found a sticky ring left by someone's spilled drink, and they were telling him that it was too late, it was hopeless, he was gone._

"Rhys? Are you okay?" Yvette asked as the machines beeped behind her.

"I think so." Rhys held his head in the one hand they couldn't take from him. "Were we celebrating my birthday?"

The doctors made adjustments via their tablets. The machines went silent. Yvette smiled at him.

"That's right. Happy 29th, by the way." Her smile shrank.

"Was that when we were attacked?"

The doctors murmured to each other and Rhys could hear the approval in their voices. Two for two. Not bad.

"Appletinis," he mumbled.

"Wow, look at you go," Yvette said, affection warming her voice. "At the rate you're going, you'll have it all back within a week."

Yvette gave him the broadest image of what happened. There'd been an attack, she confirmed that it had happened on his birthday, and the old Atlas compound didn't survive the onslaught. They left for Opportunity shortly afterwards.

Yvette sat down beside Rhys while she talked, the plush couch dipping a little under her weight. His friends had always done this for him. Stayed close when they thought he might need them.

"Does any of this have to do with Epimetheus?" Rhys asked.

Yvette paused in the action of pulling an ottoman towards her with only her feet. She glanced to the doctors, who'd fallen back to their machines. Rhys looked as well, his guts squirming at the sight of the Atlas doctor's glasses.

He knew her, didn't he? Dr. Ndolo Hibou. He'd known her from the start.

"Yes, Rhys," Yvette said at last, perhaps realizing that her hesitation said enough. "The project played a part in what happened. I can't tell you any more than that. But you'll remember it all." She kicked up her feet. "You've been doing great so far."

Rhys let his head sink into the back of the couch. He wanted to feel good about what he'd just accomplished. He could practically taste the apple brandy on his tongue. But he felt light and weak. He felt like he hadn't eaten in a long time. He felt cold.

"What else can you tell me?" he asked.

Yvette rested her hands on her stomach. She looked up at the ceiling for a few moments of silence.

"Because it doesn't feel like enough," he went on. "Last thing I can remember, we were solid out there. We were stable, protected. We had our team. We had enemies, but none that would actually take a shot at us like that. What did we do to piss them off? And how did we survive?"

And how, when his company had shattered like an expensive vase in the hands of a child, had they gotten to Opportunity? Opportunity, with its security systems coded to the voice and biosignature of a dead man. Rhys had dreamed of taking Opportunity for himself, of course he had, but it'd been too impractical to pursue. If they hadn't taken him up to the roof to see for himself where they were, he wouldn't have believed it.

"I think I can tell you," Yvette said, still picking her words with care, "that quite a few members of our security team are dead."

The machines trilled a warning.

"How?" Rhys asked, sitting up straight.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"In the attack?" His head began to pound. "Who? How many?"

"I can give you the names," she said. "I'll send you their files." She took his hand in hers.

The memory of his dream hit him like a wave. He saw the man with no face and with blood down his arms, on his clothes. Rhys had been so angry at the sight of him. Frightened out of his mind, but furious too.

Anger was easier. Who told him that?

"Rhys, are you alright?"

He wasn't. He pulled his hand from Yvette's grip, and leaned forward. He ground his palm into the hollow of his empty eye.

"That—that vault hunter," he said. "Did he have something to do with this?"

The machines were upset. The doctors were moving in and Yvette was talking over his head. He felt a hand on the back of his neck, he could feel the cold bite of Yvette's rings, the press of her nails. His mouth watered. He shook like he was cold.

Someone took his arm. They showed him the syringe. The doctor said, "It was too much for you. We have to put you under. We have to look into your systems."

"I'm sorry," Yvette said again. Rhys wanted to tell her he was sorry, too. He didn't mean to fall apart.

He didn't fight when they administered the tranquilizer, but as he watched it sink into his arm, heard the hiss of its release, he couldn't fight the overwhelming sense of déjà vu, of someone _with his back to him, crouched down looking for something that wasn't there, so trusting aren't you Timmy, such a good boy, I can't wait to see the dumb look on your face when you wake up and find me there. Did you really think you could leave me, that I would let you go? Mine you're mine you've always been mine how could you leave after I gave you everything you ever had—_

They guided him back to his bed. He wanted to tell them what he'd just seen, but his tongue felt thick and his limbs felt heavy and everything had become weighed down, even the people surrounding him.

Yvette said he was fine. She was going to call Vaughn. Rhys tried to tell her that was a good idea, but he might've just told her about his own idea, which was to dream the empty space away. Fill in the blanks with what his subconscious could cook up. Maybe that's where that vault hunter had come from. Maybe he’d crawled out of a dream. Who ever heard of a man with no face?

His eyes closed. Someone brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and he heard a voice inside his own head say, _Sort yourself out, boss. You're a mess._

* * *

_NOW_

Rhys finished the coffee from breakfast and got a bit of work done. The air in Tim's house was only ever just a few degrees warmer than the air outside, but it was such a fine day that Rhys didn't mind. All the open windows let in the scent of damp earth and fresh grass, and the distant sound of the sheep flock maa'ing.

The trouble with doing a little bit of work is that nothing Rhys had on his plate could actually be considered ‘little’. The quickest task he could accomplish took him to the end of one pot of coffee and half-way through the next. His fingers were trembling with caffeine by the time he finished reading a report and tapping out a response to the Department of Pandoran Development and Terraforming and their proposal for the Highlands. Hyperion's damming and mining had done a lot of damage that would need to be undone. Professor Rahal, lead scientist, had joked to Rhys that they should create a Department of Unfucking Hyperion Damage. As if Atlas needed another department.

He wanted this, Rhys reminded himself as he clicked send on his second complete review of the day. He'd spent his whole life dreaming about this. He was at the top at last. Complete control. Except for the parts he needed Yvette to control, for the sake of his own sanity. He shouldn't complain.

He stared at the bottom of his mug. He wanted to complain.

Specifically, he wanted to complain to Tim. He wanted to tug Tim down to the couch by the collar of his shirt, settle him down beside him, curl up and just talk. Or maybe they wouldn't talk. That would be fine too.

Rhys' ECHOeye beeped an appointment reminder, jolting him from his daydreams. Once he'd sent word to Todd that morning that he was going to get some work done remotely, his PA had loaded his schedule with appointments, unleashed a torrent of emails, all marked with exclamation points of varying urgency. If he didn't know better, he might suspect Todd was trying to keep him busy.

He stared down the list of meetings, and correspondences that needed updating, project reports and budget requests that needed signing off on, and sighed. If he let himself sink now, he wouldn't get out until dinner time.

The breeze stirred outside, a soft hiss of grass and leaves. Somewhere out there, Tim was working on building something with his hands. He'd gone out dressed in a t-shirt and his work jeans. Rhys imagined what he might look like right now, after several hours of manual labour. Maybe with a fine sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. While Rhys was sitting in his front room, working up a headache and a case of eyestrain.

To hell with this. Rhys dismissed the schedule, sent a quick message to Todd, and switched his status to Do Not Disturb.

* * *

_THEN_

Rhys dreamed almost every night. They were never the same dreams, although they all seemed to blur together. He dreamed of places he'd never seen, of spreading out on a soft bed in a too-nice apartment in Helios, of sitting in a tall wingback behind a mahogany desk, polished to lethal shine, liquid bright finish under bright lights.

He dreamed of Eos, a satellite he'd only ever read about but never actually worked at. He knew it in the way you always know things in dreams, the knowledge sitting in your head, a silent passenger behind your eyes.

He sat in an office he'd never stepped foot in, across from a man who'd buried his face in his hands. A man whose voice shook and broke over a simple repetition.

_Hate it hate it hate it hate ithatehatehate—_

He dreamed of a cathedral-like room bathed in eridium blue-violet. He recognized the structure in the centre of the cavern as the needle, the Epimetheus Project.

He dreamed of Atlas as it used to be, an impossible green house, so fragile in its placement, nestled in the ice white hills. He dreamed of the barrier between his little world and the one outside, where the wind howled and threw snow around like a child having a tantrum.

Every now and then, he would dream of a rolling hill, of rain-damp grass under a setting sun, a warm body at his side. He liked it best when his dreams took him there.

* * *

_NOW_

Rhys sent Tim a message before he left, but he didn't expect to hear a response. He learned weeks ago that Tim had the tendency to ignore his ECHOtab when he was working. Except that wasn't quite right, because it implied Tim actively thought of the ECHO at all. The whole notion of being connected to the wider world just seemed to fall out of his head when he worked. The concept was at once quaint and ludicrous to Rhys. Yvette had teased him about it.

"Your boyfriend's a luddite," she told him. "A luddite and a cyborg, together at last."

Rhys hadn't dignified her with a response. He hadn't dignified the small leap his heart made at the word 'boyfriend' with a response either.

It made that same little leap as he drove from the house, down the dirt road to the clearing a few klicks to the east. Your boyfriend. It loomed large in Rhys' mind. Your boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend.

He breathed deep and turned on the radio. It wasn't a long drive, but he needed the distraction.

They hadn't talked labels yet. Rhys wondered if it was even worth a conversation, after everything. He'd practically asked Tim to move in with him. Or well, not in with him exactly, but move near him. And Tim... needed time.

Rhys turned up the volume.

The fairgrounds had been set up in a long stretch of nothing. The scenery undulated a little, gentle peaks and valleys like wrinkles in green sheets.

There were a least two dozen people working, putting together stalls. Rhys saw where several of them were at work constructing a stage. With a bandanna wrapped around his face, Tim was easy to spot at a distance. Rhys grabbed the paper bag he’d packed before leaving and set out towards that group.

Tim was almost exactly as Rhys imagined he would be. Even at a distance, he could tell the few hours of manual labour had done interesting things to his physique. He'd need a shower, or so Rhys liked to imagine. He'd need a nice cold drink, first. He'd need someone to come over and tell him just how good he looked, how much he was missed.

I've been thinking about you all morning, Rhys thought. Even when I was working. Do you know how rare that is?

I miss you all the time. Tim had said that to him last night and Rhys couldn't stop thinking about it.

He was so distracted, he didn’t hear the raised voices of small children. He didn’t noticed a hip-tall blur speeding towards him like a comet. It's not like they saw him either.

The collision knocked them both a step back, but only the small child fell down. She made a sound like a cat who'd fallen into a bath, and a few youths hollered in response.

Rhys realised he had gotten himself into the middle of something. Again. At least, he told himself as he watched the pack draw close, he wouldn't need a gun to handle this.

"Lumiii! Lumi areyouokayyy? Lumiiiiii!" Hard to tell one voice from the other. Small children all sounded alike when they yelled, and these were all yelling at once.

Lumi wouldn't look at Rhys. Lumi looked at the ground, one hand rubbing at a sore nose. Rhys could feel the memory of the impact in his thigh bone.

"Um. Sorry," he said, maybe just a little too late. "Are you alright?"

"Lumiiiii!"

Lumi had taken steps away from him, like a prey animal on the verge of fleeing into the underbrush from something big and scary, but what isn't big and scary when you're Lumi's height? Rhys could remember being that small.

Being good with children wasn't a skill Rhys had worked to cultivate. There'd never been a need. When the kids ran up, they stopped a few steps just out of his reach. Even the sheep wouldn't have looked at him the way they did. He wasn't just a stranger, he was an adult.

He tried. "Hey, uh. Lumi, right? Sorry about before. I didn't notice you coming up like that."

Lumi didn't look up. Maybe this was a teachable moment?

"You should always keep your eyes open when you're running," he said sternly. He realised his message might be better received if he were on their level, but the grass was damp and the mud had been churned up from all the feet walking over it. And his slacks were quite nice.

He could try a gesture of affection. Ruffling Lumi's dark hair might work. Except he didn't know this child and what if their parents were nearby? What if they saw some stranger putting hands on their kid? People out here tended to be armed and not always inclined to wait around for explanations.

"Lumi! Jaemin! Ignis! What the hell are you pack o' rats doing?" A voice called out across the field and Rhys looked up to see a tall, broad figure striding towards them. He fought back a tide of disappointment, because it wasn't the tall, broad figure he wants to see. Rhys looked back to the skeleton stage, but Tim has vanished.

Rhys might've been pouting when the newcomer drew level. He was big, but he was young, and not just in the way Rhys looked young. This boy's face bore the pock-marked memory of an only just recently escaped hormonal adolescence. He had dark hair and dark eyes and he looked at Rhys with open suspicion.

"Everything alright over here?" he asked.

"Jupiter, Lumi ran into a stranger," one of the kids informed him.

"A stranger hit Lumi," another said. Rhys turned red.

"That's not exactly what happened," he said, but the aptly-named Jupiter gave him another look. Rhys had seen that kind of look before, but he'd never seen it in a face so young. He crossed his arms, his paper lunch bag crinkling in his grip.

"It was an accident," he pronounced, calm and mature. "I have already apologised."

Jupiter knelt down to Lumi's level. "That true?" he asked.

The kid shrugged. Jupiter glanced up at Rhys, but Rhys' attention had wandered back to the stage. Tim hadn't reappeared.  

"I don't recognize you," Jupiter said. He looked Rhys up and down with a sneer. "You don't look like you're from around here."

That's a good conclusion, you dumb hick, Rhys thought.

He gave Jupiter an easy smile, and it was easy because he'd been dealing with this sort of hostility since he'd been old enough to talk.

"I'm from a little ways to the south," he said.

"You look corporate." Jupiter flung the word like a stone at him. The mood among the little ones shifted. The edged their way into the big kid's shadow.

Rhys decided a change in topic was the best way forward. "Hey, have you seen—"

"Where'd you come from? What's your name? Does anyone here know you?" Jupiter's gaze flicked down to Rhys' hips. "You ain't armed?"

"Should I be?" Rhys asked. One of the kids giggled.

Jupiter stepped into Rhys' space, his big jaw tightening. Rhys didn't back away, although he realised a second later that he probably should have.

These displays were so primal and stupid, all posture and bluster and nothing of substance. Vasquez used to pull this shit, or a corporate, three-piece version of it, anyway.

Feeding into it wasn't going to do anyone any good. Even knowing this, Rhys didn't move. He smiled at Jupiter like they were talking about T4 reports, the latest e-phone out on the market, their golf game. Friendly and empty.

"Answer my questions," Jupiter said, doing his best to growl.

"How old are you?" Rhys asked.

Jupiter pulled his lip back. He brought one thick finger and prodded Rhys in the chest. "I said—"

"Rhys?"

The change that came over Jupiter's face at the sound of Tim's familiar voice would've been comical if Rhys had been paying attention.

He spun around to find Tim walking towards their group. Even with the bandanna on, Rhys knew he was smiling. He could see it in the wrinkles around his eyes, the pull of his cheeks. Rhys' easy smile melted into something softer.

Every time was like the first.

"Hey." Tim wrapped his arms around Rhys.

"Hi." Rhys leaned in and, after a brief hesitation, kissed the top of the mask.

"Just got your message," Tim said. "Sorry I didn't respond sooner."

"I don't care," Rhys said, meaning it. He slid his hand around the back of Tim's neck, relishing the feel of his damp, short hair brushing against the palm of his hand. They were inches apart. "It's good to see you."

Tim lowered his mask and kissed him properly. A small voice gasped. Another piped up with a shrill "GROSS!"

Tim jerked back like he'd kissed a wall socket, slipping out of Rhys' arms and fumbling with his bandanna. Rhys closed his eyes and tried to keep his emotions off of his face.

"Ah, it's the small children," Tim said, once his mask was back in place. "Didn't see you all there."

"I'm just getting to know them," Rhys said, armed once more with a charming smile. "Lumi and I have gotten pretty close. Right, Lumi?" He winked.

To his moderate surprise and no small amount of gratification, Lumi's gave him a shy, small smile.

"And of course, the village protector—" Rhys stopped at the sight of Jupiter's expression. The boy aimed a look at Rhys that could boil water. Like Rhys had come to town to set his house on fire and steal all his favourite toys.

"Tim, you know this... person?" Jupiter asked, looking Rhys up and down with a sneer.

"Yeah, this is Rhys. He's staying with me for a while," Tim said, perfectly natural.

Rhys kept his smile in place. He hadn't actually expected Tim to introduce him as his boyfriend, of course. It would be absurd to be disappointed.

Rhys was so preoccupied with what he wasn't feeling that he failed to see the slight change in Jupiter's expression. By the time Rhys refocused, only the glare remained.

Tim looked between them. "You guys have met?" he asked.

"Yeah. Jupiter, right?" Rhys stuck out his golden hand. "Nice to meet you."

Jupiter looked down at the cybernetic with a sneer. He turned to Tim. "You can't just bring strangers into the village, Lawrence. Especially not corporate."

Tim's expression didn't change much, but some of the humour drained away. He raised one eyebrow. "No one's said anything to me about that."

"Well, they should've. I know my ma—"

"I know your ma, too, Jupes. Why don't you go find her now? Last I saw, she was with the hunting party. No doubt she could use a pair of strong hands to carry home their haul. Make yourself useful."

The tips of Jupiter's ears went red. He crossed his arms across his barrel chest. He muttered something Rhys couldn't quite hear.

"Atta boy. Help out when you can, right? If you see Fang, you tell her I'm on lunch." He slung an arm around Rhys' hips.

"And you guys," he went on. "Are you here to help or are you here to be a nuisance?"

The children looked at each other, at their feet. The littlest one stuck their hand into their mouth.

"Thought so," Tim said. "Go and cause trouble somewhere else, away from the people with power tools. But stay away from Sonoran's Field!" he shouted as they took flight. "There've been rakk sightings! I don't want waste my afternoon prying your corpse from a nest!"

"Nice," Rhys said.

"I don't really know how to talk to kids," Tim admitted. "Anyway, they're fine. I haven't had to save any children yet. Jupiter usually keeps an eye on them."

Tim lead them away from the action, from the sound of tools and assembly, raised voices over the racket.

"Should I be worried about that stuff he mentioned?" Rhys asked.

"I don't know what the hell he was talking about. There's no rules about outsiders. You think they would've let me stay if there were?" Tim sounded sour. "He's just a weird kid. Overly protective. He tried to do my job before I came along."

"They sent him out against the monsters?" Rhys asked, startled.

Tim lifted one shoulder. "He's a big kid, and he was raised here. Not a bad shot, either, which doesn't hurt. But he was maybe a little too young for the job. When I came along, they stopped asking him to go out. Not that that's stopped him from trying."

"He's still trying?" Rhys asked. Something about the way Jupiter had looked at Tim didn't sit right with him.

"I've caught him out there a few times. I always send him home. He's never happy to go without a fight. Seems to think I could use his help, but I've got the digistructs. He's always been a little on edge around me." Tim rubbed his jaw, his eyes downcast. "He isn't the only one."

Rhys pecked him on the cheek. "That's because you're too cute. It makes everyone nervous."

The clouds cleared from Tim's expression as he laughed and he looked so good that Rhys didn't mind he was the one being laughed at.

"Whatever you say, stretch. What'd you bring us for lunch?"

Tim talked about the activities planned for tomorrow as they ate. Rhys listened as best he could but his mind kept tugging him back to Jupiter, and to what Tim told him.

He'd spent years living this life, learning how to read people, to look for weaknesses. The MBA asshole types had always told him Hyperion was a battlefield and maybe they were right, except there were rules on a battlefield. In Hyperion, everything was a weapon if you knew how to use it right.

And the look Jupiter wore when he looked at Tim. Rhys knew it. He'd seen it aimed at himself. This was more than just a displaced, disgruntled rival. This was personal.

* * *

_THEN_

Rhys woke up two days later, and Dr. Hibou was there to greet him.

"Everything is fine," she told him. There'd been some minor damage to his systems, but they'd repaired it.

"You're an interesting patient," she said jovially. "We have to bring in a coder every time we need to perform a check-up."

“There’s software you can use,” Rhys mumbled. “Diagnostic programs. I built some of them.”

"I know. I was trying to joke." She looked uncomfortable. "I've been told my bedside manor could use improvement."

Rhys sat up, stretching his one arm behind his head. He felt better. His head felt more solid than it had in days.

"Recovery will take a while," Hibou told him. "But I'm afraid we can't have another meeting like the one we had before. It's too risky."

Rhys lowered his arm slowly. His right shoulder jerked a little, an unconscious movement that caught him by surprise. He hadn't done that in a long time. Not since the early days, after the accident. Phantom gestures.

"But we're confident you'll recover your memories in time. You had a minor break-through before. It'll happen again," she said, smiling brightly at her ECHOtab. "It'll keep happening."

Rhys reached into his gown and felt for the familiar scar tissue. Half of his chest in blue, and the other half a star-burst of shiny white. Even after the skin grafts, there were marks. They'd told him there always would be. Some things you keep with you forever.

"Did you dream at all while you were under?" Hibou asked.

Rhys dropped his hand. "I don't think so," he said.

"Try to remember," she suggested.

He did. He shifted his gaze to the window, where the sunset painted the tips of the sea blue waves gold and white. A lonely stretch. Opportunity was a city on the edge of nothing at all.

What had he dreamed about? He could remember _staring down at a blue display on top of his desk. A bandit camp in miniature, the holographic world. Easily manipulated, slowed down, drawn large. He could pause, he could fast-forward. A petty god with limited control._

_And the figure in the centre of it all, the reason for it all, standing on two legs with a gun in his hand and his head bowed. That was wrong. Head up always, face forward always. There's no room for those sorts of mistakes on the battlefield. You were good or you were dead._

_"What am I looking at here?" Always the opening salvo and the refrain._

_The man seated on the other side of his desk didn't even raise his head. His shoulders were slumped and his posture was terrible. From this angle, he could see the bruise blossoming across his right cheek. Retribution from an earlier smart-alec comment. A love tap, really. But Christ, Timmy could be such a baby._

_—"Timothy Lawrence, actually."_

_He sounded annoyed but Rhys barely noticed. The idea of this man, yet another vault hunter with a quasi-magical gimmick, one who'd just harvested an entire bandit camp like it was nothing, all to save Rhys' life..._

_Rhys knew he was laughing, and he knew that wasn't smart. This man with a name like a real estate agent just saved his life. He should probably show a little respect, but that had never been Rhys' strong suit._

"That vault hunter," Rhys said eventually. He felt strange. An ache had settled behind his ribs, taken root. Hibou looked up. "Tim Lawrence. How long was he here?"

"A little while. Do you remember much about him?" She looked nervous.

Rhys didn't, not yet. He looked outside, across Opportunity's impressive skyline. Silver and gold buildings turned to polished diamond in the fading light. The whole city would be dark soon.

It never looked right at night. There weren’t enough people around to keep it lit up the way a city should be. The lavender shield that kept them safe from the rest of Pandora cast the whole city in such odd shadow. It turned the buildings into black crystals, streaked with what looked like an eridium glow.

The blank space in his memory was like a sink hole in the bottom of the ocean. He could feel it by the way it pulled at every thought. Blue violet light in a dark room. A forgotten lab. A row of monitors gone dead, blue screens of failure as far as the eye could see. Leather straps on a medical bed. Silver tools on a tray.

Rhys closed his eye. Pain pierced like a needle behind his brow where there were _so many vessels in your head and the blood beaded like polished rubies as soon as the drill kissed his temple—_

"I want my arm back," he said, voice hard. "And my eye."

Hibou nodded and tapped around her screen.

* * *

_NOW_

Rhys opted to stay and help once they'd finished lunch, to Tim's apparent surprise.

"You sure?" he asked. "I don't want to keep you from anything."

Rhys snorted. He wound his fingers through Tim's hair. "Keep me from what? More meeting requests? Signing off on forms T6 through 60?"

"I just know you're busy," Tim said, leaning a little into Rhys' hand.

"Trust me, compared to what I could be doing, spending the day out in the sunshine sounds like heaven."

They packed up the remains of their lunch and walked back hand in hand to the main field, where they found a petite woman wearing a pair of daisy-print cover-alls and a blue scarf around her hair.

"Miqa!" Tim raised his hand.

"Lawrence, that was quite a long lunch," she said. Her eyebrow twitched a little when she caught sight of Rhys, and their clasped hands. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

"This is Rhys," Tim said. Rhys raised his hand in greeting. "He wants to pitch in."

Miqa sized him up, tapping her screw driver against her hip. "You're not really dressed for it," she said, gesturing to his outfit (pinstriped slacks and a collared shirt. Really, he'd dressed down for the day). "Do you know anything about carpentry?" she asked.

"Electronics are really more my expertise," Rhys said. "If you need anything wired, I can help there."

She sent him to find a woman named Fang, who apparently had taken on the task of their stage tech. She told him about their lighting woes.

"If you can fix it..." She shrugged.

"Piece of cake," Rhys said.

Fang raised a dark brow. "You haven't even seen what we're dealing with yet."

What they were dealing with was a mess of scavenged circuit boards, frayed wires, old bulbs. The actual hanging would be performed by someone else—someone, she added with a side-eye, who was properly dressed for the job—he only had to make sure it worked.

"Piece of cake," he said again and cracked his knuckles.

It took the rest of the afternoon, because the whole thing was constructed from actual garbage. It reminded Rhys of his old school projects, back before he embraced the life of luxury he so deserved, when everything was cup noodles and whatever he could salvage from his richer classmates.

It was hard to describe how working on the lighting rig felt. Not nostalgic, surely, because he didn't miss those days at all. Maybe just relief that he didn't have to do this sort of thing anymore.

Unless he wanted to impress his boyfriend's friends. Or his not-boyfriend. Whatever.

Fang stuck around while Rhys worked. She didn't seem inclined to help, but she wasn't in his way. She talked for a bit about the equipment they were using, and the 'recovered' pieces of technology the scavenging party from the neighbouring town had found in an old DAHL site.

"Didn't know DAHL came out this far," Rhys said.

"There's nothin' but corporate stamps across this planet. DAHL nosed around looking for eridium and artefacts. They didn't stick it out, of course. Not enough shiny purple incentive to keep them. Hyperion came after they left, but I think they just did it to keep them from coming back."

"A land claim," Rhys said. Fang nodded. "Sounds like Hyperion."

"You know much about Hyperion, Rhys? What with you being corporate and all..." she went on while he fumbled with his screwdriver.

"Uh, yeah. I'm familiar with them," he said, recovering smoothly.

"Sonsabitches, all of 'em, but we didn't have it too bad. Even before Handsome Jack ate a quart of lava, they weren't exactly active out here. When they pulled back, they didn't leave much behind, except for the critters. Nice to have, though. More useful than a big hole in the ground and a bunch of stripped excavation equipment." She leaned back on the palms of her hands and kicked her feet against the edge of the platform. "We're luckier than most out in Karamay."

"Sounds like it," Rhys said. He flinched back at a small, sudden spark from one stripped wire.

"Course, if it weren't for Hyperion, we wouldn't even be out here today," she said. Rhys nodded absently, glaring into the depths of his console. "It's nice to have cause to celebrate."

"You celebrate Hyperion out here?" he asked, carefully nudging a circuit board into place.

"Kinda. We celebrate the day it fell to its death." She knocked her heels against the wood. Rhys' hands went still. "Tomorrow's the three year anniversary. It's better than Mercenary Day, although it could use some similar branding. Not sure if we ever settled on a name. ‘Death to Helios Day’ is alright, but it's kind of a long title. You okay? You're lookin' kinda green around the gills."

Three years. Rhys had forgotten. He'd actually forgotten that he'd cracked the whole world of Hyperion open like an egg and spilled its contents across Pandora three years ago tomorrow.

"It's..." He stared down at his hands, still buried in the guts of a console. "That's what this is about? Helios?"

The sunshine on the back of his neck felt too warm. Rhys felt for certain that if he looked up now he wouldn't see the sun, but the accusing stare of a hundred people, former co-workers, all of whom doomed to spend the rest of forever preserved in the vacuum of space. Artefacts from a forgotten civilization.

"You okay?" she asked again.

Rhys leaned back on his heels and rubbed his hands on his thighs. "Fine," he said, loud enough to be heard over his own pounding heart. "Just... maybe got a little too warm."

Fang eyed him, a smile pulling at one corner of her lips like a hook. "Well, take your time, softie. Let me know if you want me to call Lawrence over to look after you."

Rhys knew she meant to tease. He knew she only meant well, a gentle ribbing to remind him that they all knew why he was there, and who he was there for. But the thought of seeing Tim at that moment, of seeing his face...

"He's too busy," Rhys said with a smile he could barely feel. "I'll be fine."

"That's the spirit. No point in letting him know what a wimp you are just yet, right?" She laughed, although it seemed to Rhys like an awfully hurtful thing to say to someone she'd only just met. He couldn't bring himself to laugh along, so he only smiled.

She wasn't wrong.

* * *

_THEN_

Vaughn returned on the same day they finally released his arm and eye. Rhys took both gifts with good grace, feeling the universe might've owed him a few favours.

"And they're sure your parts are clean?" Vaughn asked for the third time as he helped Rhys reattach his arm.

"They're sure," Rhys replied patiently, because he loved his bro and he knew how much he worried. "They went over everything a hundred times. Numerous diagnostic programs, anti-virals, anti-malware, code cleaners, defrags, the whole works. They're in better shape now than they were when I built them new."

The eye's installation had been an entire procedure, one that had required a doctor and a member of his own cyber security team. Everyone had been very cautious, explaining every step of the process to him because they couldn't put him under for it.

He took that in good graces too, and did not tell them that he had installed that eye himself, in the dusty unused medbay of the old Atlas facility. He didn't tell them that because they might disapprove. They might wonder if he'd cried. (He had.)

"I'm glad," Vaugh said, although he didn't smile.

Rhys didn't need help with this either, but Vaughn had offered and he didn't have the heart to say no. It was kind of nice, being spoiled like this. Everyone treated him like he was made of glass. If only the cost of their care hadn't come so high.

Vaughn snapped the last latch in place and Rhys felt a _weight press down hard on his chest, forcing the air from lungs he still considered his own. Thick, slick fingers fumbled with the fixes on his shoulder, the wires and latches and things that required a special touch. He could hear his own voice, hear himself beg, but he had no control over what he said. He babbled like a man possessed and up above he saw a face he almost didn't recognize, washed out in blue-violet light, brows drawn together as if in pain, eyes bright._

_Jack._

"Rhys?"

Rhys blinked and found himself once more safe in the present, in the presidential suite with all the machines that told everyone how he was doing, and with his best friend at his side. One more night here, just for observation. To make sure nothing had come back that should've stayed gone.

Vaughn peered up at him nervously, a timid look that just didn't go with his bandit king outfit. Any other time, Rhys might've told him as much.

Instead he said, "I saw Jack."

He'd known Vaughn for more than a decade now, which seemed impossible. He knew his bro. Knew how to read his face better than he knew his own, even with the full beard.

There was no surprise in Vaughn's expression. When he frowned at Rhys, pulled his brows together, he only looked sad.

"It was a memory. One of the ones I'd lost. Was he—" Rhys' breath caught, black stars swimming in his vision. He lowered his head into his hands while Vaughn rubbed soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

"I can't tell you, bro," Vaughn said. "I'm sorry, but I just can't. We don't know what's going to set you off and your doctors said—"

"I know."

Vaughn's hand stilled. Rhys sighed.

"Sorry. I know what they said." He'd heard it often enough.

Vaughn was silent for a while. Rhys' shoulders slumped.

"Look, you don't have to tell me anything, but could you just... just give me a yes or no answer? Just so I know I haven't gone completely nuts." Vaughn's frown lines deepened with worry. "Yes or no. That's all I need. Did I see Handsome Jack in the flesh?"

Vaughn didn't respond. When Rhys looked up at last, he saw the pained look on his friend's face. Vaughn met his eyes and gave him a weak smile.

"You saw... Handsome Jack's face," he said at last. "And that's all I can tell you."

* * *

_NOW_

"Not bad," Fang said sometime later, bathed in the light of Rhys' good work.

"I'm just getting started. Check this out."

He flicked a switch on the console, and the lights flickered once and then began to strobe. Fang whistled. Rhys grinned, pushing his hair back.

"Yeah, just a little thing I whipped up when I was bored. No big deal. It'll work in time with any music too, so. You know."

He felt better. Working on something with his bare hands always had that effect on him. He suspected one of the reasons he managed to keep his sanity in the weeks after the events of three years ago was by rebuilding himself from scratch.

"Alright. I might be a little impressed," Fang admitted with a half-smile. "Guess Tim's got good taste."

Rhys felt his cheeks grow warm as he chuckled.

"What the hell's this disco party over here."

A short, stout woman stomped her way towards them.

"We got the lights working," Fang said.

The newcomer turned her ruddy face towards Rhys, giving him the same once-over he'd received from everyone he'd met so far in Karamay. He wondered what they were looking for. Concealed weapons? His wallet? Maybe they were just admirers of excellent tailoring. Then again, he thought as he took in the new-comers outfit, probably not.

"Who's this?" she asked.

Poorly dressed and rude. A winning combination. Rhys' bashful smile became slick and empty.

"This is Rhys. He's Tim's special friend." Fang nudged him. "He's the one who fixed the lighting. Be nice."

"Oh. You're Tim's boy," the woman said.

God, he wanted to be.

"Nice to meet you," he said.

The middle aged woman gave him a longer, more considering look. And then her face split in what looked like a genuine smile.

"Nice to meet you too," she said. "Name's Batu. Tim might've mentioned me."

"You're teaching him how to cook," Rhys said, accepting her hand.

"He's testing my patience once a week," Batu confirmed. "But he's a good egg. Does his best. Seems like the kind of boy who's eager to please," she added with what might've been a leer.

"Uh," Rhys said. He heard footsteps coming up to them and felt immediately grateful for the distraction.

"Ma, I'm finished with the—" Jupiter came to a stop at the sight of Rhys, his expression darkening. He had what looked and smelled like a dead skag slung over his shoulder, oozing purplish liquid onto his sweat-damp shirt. "What's he still doing here?"

"Nice to see you again, Jupiter," Rhys said cheerfully.

"Manners, boy. Who taught you to talk like that to your elders?" Batu said with a scowl.

Jupiter looked away and Rhys was struck by the family resemblance between the two, that same mulish frown, the line between thick, furrowed brows.

The boy shifted his weight, readjusting the position of the dead creature on his back. "He's an outsider, ma. Corporate," he muttered.

"Go and take the kill home. We need it cleaned by supper tonight. There's gonna be a lot of hungry people once we're finished here. You like fried skag skewers, Rhys?" she asked while her son glared.

"They're my favourite," he said.

"They're nobody's favourite, but Huang makes a sauce that'll knock your fancy boots off. I know Tim's a fan. How long have you known him for, anyway?"

Rhys didn't even blink. "A little under a year."

One of Batu's brows climbed. Even Fang looked surprised. "A year? How come we're only hearing about you now?"

"Oh. That's a little hard to explain." He folded his arms, a weak barrier against their stares. "Things were complicated for a while."

The friendliness in their faces seemed to pull back like a tide. Except for Jupiter, who only turned up the intensity of his glare by a few notches.

"Complicated. Right. And you're just coming back into his life now?" Batu asked.

Rhys didn't know if he should fidget under their regard, if it would make him seem more human to their eyes, or if it would just make him look pathetic. Like a weasel.

He could guess what they were thinking, that they were worried why someone like him might've swanned back into Tim's life after four months of nothing. He didn't know what kind of shape Tim had been in when he arrived in Karamay, but given the fallout of Opportunity, what he'd been through, what Rhys put him through... He could guess. And he could see how bad this looked.

Ah, what the hell.

"We worked together for two months and I fell for him pretty hard, but things were tense because he was hiding his face from me, and then a lot of unbelievable stuff happened and I had my memory wiped for both our own best interests," Rhys said, doing his best to sound matter-of-fact. "And then Tim left and I spent four months trying to remember him. As soon as I did, I came to find him."

All three of them looked at him like he had sprouted feathers. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Now we're trying something,” he said.

Batu recovered first. "Right. That old story."

"Everybody's gone through something like that," Fang said.

"Sounds made up," Jupiter said, his lips puckering on his sour grapes.

"I believe it. That boy attracts crazy like a magnet." Batu gave Rhys a ringing slap on the back, as high up as she could reach.

"Which boy?" Tim asked, coming up behind Rhys and slipping one arm around his waist. He brought with him the scent of wood chips, grass, and sweat. Rhys didn't even pretend it wasn't appealing.

"Which boy do you think?" Batu asked as Rhys kissed Tim on his cheek. "Skag skewers tonight, Lawrence. You coming by?"

"Sounds tempting, but I think me an' Rhys are gonna stay in. Catch up," Tim said. "If that's alright with you," he added in a lowered voice.

Rhys could only smile back in response. Getting Tim alone again sounded like a slice of heaven.

"Well, far be it from me to interrupt you two from your honeymoon. Why don't I make you a bag for delivery, then?" Batu asked. "Payment for your work today."

"That's awfully decent of you," Tim said, a touch of suspicious. The little bartender shrugged.

"I've been married four times. I’m a sucker for romance," she said. Fang giggled behind her grease-stained hand.

Rhys was also a sucker for romance. He held Tim's hand all the way back to his technical, ignoring the heated glare aimed at the back of his neck. He was no detective, but he had a suspicion about  who the culprit was. Poor kid needed to learn an ounce of subtlety.

Tim climbed in shotgun, having decided to leave his bike parked by the completed stage.

"You should consider buying a real car soon," Rhys said as he started the ignition. "Something with four wheels and maybe even a pair of doors."

"I don't need anything that fancy." Tim laid his head against the seat rest and closed his eyes.

"You'll break your neck on that stupid bike."

Tim smiled. He had his bandana around his neck once more and his arms stretched out above his head. He arched his back and sighed quietly at the stretch, his tight shirt riding up with the movement. His hair stirred in the breeze.

It was like Tim emitted a force that reduced Rhys' higher functions down to his primal hindbrain. He stared at Tim's neck, at the relaxed and blissful smile on his face, and felt so turned on it made him stupid.

"I'll be fine," Tim said, sinking back down into the seat. He cracked one eye open. "Are taking me home or what?"

Rhys hit the accelerator, the wheels kicking up dirt and grass as they peeled out and back onto the road. Tim's laughter was barely audible over the sound of the engine.

* * *

_THEN_

Down but not out. Rhys walked back into a life that didn't quite fit, and he was two months out of step. What could he do but live on?

Rhys picked it up as best he could. ‘Fake it 'til you make it’ had been his motto since he'd started primary school.

Stepping back into his role as CEO felt hard, but he made sure no one noticed. Rhys had long ago gotten used to pretending like he could breathe when he was in over his head. A drop of weakness was blood in the water and everyone watched him. This wasn't Hyperion, but Rhys knew better than to get soft. Vulnerable. No one would make the first cut, but they'd all wait to see him turn red. Fake it 'til you make it or you won't.

Yvette monitored what they gave him to do. She looked untailored when they finally met for their briefing, her make-up nearly worn away, her clothing wrinkled, a small run in her hose, just above her ankle. He couldn't tell how long it'd been since she'd gotten a decent night's sleep. Fiona had left weeks ago. Probably around then.

They gave him the projects he'd been working on before, including a summary to let him know how much had happened with it since his brain got fried. It wasn't unlike catching up on something after he'd been out on vacation, or so he imagined.

He tried to think of it like that. As if he'd gone on vacation and some temp had filled his role while he was gone.

The idea that anything at Atlas could be beyond his clearance level didn't sit well with Rhys, but there was no one he could complain to about it. If he'd tried it with Yvette, she might've taken his other arm.

Now and then he experienced minor jolts of recognition, little flashes of his old office, his old consoles, but nothing he worked on triggered anything tangible.

They'd set him up in the biggest office they could find, one they were reasonably certain was safe. Opportunity had more bugs than an ant farm and the infosec team kept finding new ones on every sweep.

It made him feel a little proud to know he didn't hire dummies, if they could keep up with the bizarre paranoid machinations of Hyperion.

He was cleared to move into a real apartment, an actual penthouse. The panorama views and tasteful, modern furnishing were everything Rhys wanted. For the first time since the hospital, he felt grounded. There were golden taps in his bathroom, and a marble tub sunken into the ground, right in front of a panorama view of the bay. The bed was large enough for three, for a very good time. The sofa was so sleek and ugly that it must've come with a six digit price tag. The windows changed tint automatically with the light. The sound system played Rhys' favourite music stations in the morning. The kitchen remembered his coffee order. His bedroom could read his spinal health, and adjust his mattress accordingly. The air always smelled just a little like baking bread, but it could be changed to pomegranate and argan oil, to peony and jasmine, sweet basil and olive oil, to the smell of your childhood bedroom with the window open.

Memories would spark now and then, outside in the wide world, while he did his job, but there was never any time to focus. He could meet with a project manager and suddenly recall a string of meetings he'd arranged weeks before, something pulled free from the black hole inside his head. He hated that, because it didn’t give him time. Whatever he remembered would have to be pushed aside to unpack later.

A lot of it wasn't very interesting. He'd remember scheduling the meetings, and got the sense that he'd kept them, but he couldn't remember much beyond that. It should have bothered him more that it didn't bother him.

Or maybe it did. He didn't know how else to explain that strange, sinking feeling he'd get in his chest now and then. An ache, a sense of dread he couldn't understand. He felt like he'd made someone angry, someone he actually cared about. Now and then, he'd catch himself gasping for breath, nervous for reasons he couldn't explain.

During those episodes, he'd contact his friends. Yvette and Vaughn first, both of whom would assure him he was fine, they weren't angry.

 _"Bro, after what happened... we're not mad,"_ Vaughn said over their third conference call.

 _"But we hope you don't do anything that stupid again,"_ Yvette added.

Lavish accommodations made up for the daily grind. Rhys could play pretend outside as necessary, smile and nod and sign his name on the right lines, follow the proper procedures, and keep the game running without anyone noticing how deep he'd let himself sink, but in his home there were no expectations. In in his home, he could close his eyes and sink.

His doctors sent him guides on meditation and Rhys read up on self-hypnotism. He practiced again and again. He spent nights alone in his room, cross-legged on his mattress, and trying to remember. He wrote down everything he could remember of what happened after he'd gone searching for the latest lead in Epimetheus, and he’d been taken hostage by Malady. He wrote everything down, forced himself to make note of even the smallest details. A man, a vault hunter, named Tim Lawrence saved him from a bandit camp. He could create digistruct doubles of himself.

_Copy of a copy._

His face was blank. Hidden. He resisted Rhys' offer of more money. He was cynical, he worked for Vaughn, he called Rhys an idiot. He could drop off to sleep in minutes, but he'd wake up at the drop of a pin.

And every time Rhys thought about him, his heart would pound. His skin would shiver. The ache inside would spread its wings and envelope him.

He put the pieces together, wrote everything down, and sent it to Vaughn. And Vaughn, if he knew for certain, would tell Rhys yes or no.

_“Yes, I hired him. Yes, he hid his face. No, he didn't tell you why. No, I didn't tell you either. Don't you have questions about anything else?”_

* * *

_NOW_

At home, they made out like stupid teens almost as soon as they stepped through the door. Except Rhys' technique had gotten a lot better since he was a kid, and Tim was hardly an amateur.

"We can't... We can't just..." Tim kissed his way down Rhys' neck, his lips finding an old bruise. "We can't just make out all night," he said before he dragged his teeth lightly across Rhys' throat.

Rhys hummed, a vibration he knew Tim could taste.

"We're adults. We have to be adults," Tim said as he pushed Rhys' shirt open.

"I fully intend to be an adult tonight." Rhys unbuckled Tim’s belt. "Everything we do will be incredibly adult. Take off your shirt."

They became too preoccupied to hear the knock on the door. Tim's shirt was on the floor when they finally noticed they had a visitor.

"Shit," Tim muttered, pushing back. Rhys pouted as he scrambled for his clothes.

"I'll get it. You stay just as you are," Rhys said.

"I should probably shower anyway," Tim said. Rhys kissed him on the tip of his nose.

"You do whatever you like. I'll handle whoever's at the door." Rhys tucked his shirt back into his slacks and pushed his hair back into order.

"If it's Miqa, tell her I'm off the clock for the night," Tim called to Rhys' back. "She can find someone else to play pack mule!"

Rhys wondered if he should be nervous about interaction with another citizen of Karamay. The last one seemed to go alright, and they seemed to believe the story he gave them. He felt a little guilty for telling it without consulting Tim first. At least he'd skimmed over the ugliest details.

It was Jupiter at the door, slouched on Tim's front stoop, with a paper bag in his arms and his back to the fading light of day.

The golden hour did his skin some favours. Rhys realised that in a few short years, after he shed the last of the awkward adolescence that hung around him like a fog, he'd be something of a looker. Handsome, even, if he bothered to smile now and then.

He didn't smile at Rhys. The paper bag crinkled as he held it tight to his chest, holding it like Rhys might try to snatch it from him. As if Rhys could.

"Where's Lawrence?" Jupiter asked.

Half naked and waiting for me, you little twerp.

"Showering," Rhys said. He leaned against the doorjamb, and smiled at him like he was about to take his coffee order. "Is that the stuff Batu was going to send us? It's awfully generous of her."

"We're gonna charge you for it," Jupiter said. "It'll be on Lawrence's tab."

"His tab, huh?" Rhys flexed his cybernetic hand, a projected screen appearing over his palm. A place like Karamay might've tended towards the old fashioned, but everyone relied on computers to do their math for them, and every business had a page on the ‘net. Rhys found Batu's Public House in two seconds.

He dug in, found Tim's outstanding balance, and took care of it.

"There. Paid in full." Rhys smiled. Jupiter stared at his arm like he'd pulled a machete out of his slacks.

"Holy fuck," he said. Rhys preened. "You're some kind of... fucked up robot guy." His gaze flicked up to Rhys' glowing eye, to the port on the side of his head. Even in the lovely light, he looked distinctly green.

Rhys dropped his hand. "Can you hand over our dinner?"

But Jupiter didn't seem to be listening. "Does Tim know about you? The whole... gross... bodymod stuff? And he's okay with it?"

'Tim' and not Lawrence, huh? He could feel the strain around his smile.

"It's not gross." Rhys' voice came out too sharp. He took a breath. "It's normal. A lot of people get cybernetics." Rhys hadn't met many in person himself, but he'd been a member of the online communities for longer than he'd had his arm and eye. "In any case, you're not blind. Why are you only getting upset over this now?"

Colour rose to Jupiter's ruddy cheeks. "I'm not upset," he snapped.

Oh dear, soft belly revealed. What an amateur move. Then again, the kid looked like he might still have the smell of milk on his breath. Rhys shifted his expression a few degrees towards condescending.

"Right, right," he said soothingly. "How about that dinner?"

Jupiter gave him that same, measuring look Rhys had been getting all day. Except something told him he wasn't being held to a very high standard, and he was still falling short.

"Look. I'm gonna be straight up with you: I don't like you."

"Oh no."

"I don't know what you want from us, or what your goal is with Tim—" 'Tim' again, huh. "—but I know your type."

"You come across a lot of CEOs in Karamay?" Rhys asked with a smile he knew could incite violence.

"I know your type," Jupiter repeated, lifting his square chin. "You're cheap."

Rhys' smile dropped completely. "Excuse you."

"You're cheap in every way except for money. You're shallow. Flashy. You might have nice suits, and expensive, gross cybernetics, and a car, and a company, and whatever else—"

"It's not just a company, it happens to be a major—"

"—but you've got nothing going on inside."

Rhys fell silent.

"Nobody gets to where you are by being nice to people. Or by having a personality. But Tim's not like you. He's got a soul." Jupiter stopped slouching. He unfolded and Rhys realised they were the same height. He did his best to look down his nose at Rhys. "He likes you, probably a lot more than you like him. I bet you take advantage of that."

Rhys' face felt moulded in plastic.

"He's too good for you. So, why don't you save him some heartache and just leave and never come back?"

Jupiter stood there, in the clanging silence that followed. Rhys didn't straighten from his slouch. Somewhere during Jupiter's speech, he'd crossed his arms tight over his chest. He could feel his cybernetic hand gripping his side, golden fingers digging into his ribs. He forced himself to relax. He could not force himself to smile.

"You seem to know an awful lot for a kid." Rhys took care to keep the heat out of his voice, to keep his expression mild. He knew the golden light of sunset looked better on him. He tried to bask in it, fluff out his colourful plumage, but he'd fallen in Jupiter's shadow.

Rhys had dealt with harder customers before he left school. He built an empire on walking that fine line between smarm and charm, of being the sort of guy you hated to love rather than just hated. People had been trying to tell him about himself for years. It was corporate manipulation and undermining tactic number one.

Rhys told himself this, and more. It didn't help.

"Look, you seem like a nice kid," he began, and boy did it work as intended. Jupiter looked like he wanted to punch him through the wall. "And I appreciate your concern on Tim's behalf. But, uh. No offense. You don't know what you're talking about. I make Tim very happy. I was making him very happy just a few minutes ago, before you interrupted us."

Jupiter looked like he was about to spit acid. Rhys examined his manicure. A little chipped after working on the wiring all day. He'd have to schedule another appointment.

"Anyway. If that's everything, I'll just take that dinner off your—"

"Are you two even exclusive?" Jupiter asked.

The sun had nearly sunk completely, leaving them both in a fading orange-violet light. Rhys couldn't be certain, but he thought perhaps Jupiter's flush hadn’t vacated his face.

The question caught Rhys off-guard. It brought back everything Rhys had tried not to think about all day.

He and Tim had been through so much already. Why did they need to discuss labels now? What was a label, really? They were taking things slow. And Tim needed time.

And maybe Tim might benefit from options. Nobody bought a suit without trying on a few different cuts. Nobody picked a favourite dish without visiting multiple restaurants.

Except Rhys did. Rhys looked good in almost anything, but he got all his suits tailored in different colours to his favourite cut. Rhys loved the variety the Atlas chef offered them, but he could happily eat chana masala for every meal 'til he died. He had the same friends he'd made in university, and he couldn't imagine living without them. Hyperion was the first job he'd taken fresh out of business school and he would have stayed there 'til he retired or got important enough to be killed, if things hadn't turned out the way they had. Even his celebrity crushes...

His loyalty was as much a weakness as it was his strength.

And he'd paused for too long. Jupiter's expression settled from its previous belligerency into something more smug.

"You aren't exclusive," he said.

"It's none of your business," Rhys snapped, far too late and far too emotional.

"You aren't. Good. Here." He shoved the bag into Rhys' chest. "Enjoy your meal. I'll see you tomorrow."

From anyone else, that might've been a polite parting. Jupiter made it sound like a threat.

Rhys wasn't intimidated. The kid was big enough to break Rhys in half, but he wouldn't let that get to him. Pandora was filled with people like Jupiter. They were practically the number one export.

"Smells good," Tim said, towelling off his hair. Rhys stared down at the grease-stained bag on the table and made no response. "You were out there for a while. Everything okay?"

Just another codemonkey. All swagger, no substance. Little tin man who traded his heart in for a computer.

"Fine," Rhys said automatically. "Just... got caught up talking to Jupiter."

"Oh, yikes." Tim chuckled. "Was he on about his gun collection? I keep telling that kid to keep it in his pants. It's only Tediores anyway. He's been saving every nickel his ma gives him for a Maliwan—"

Rhys wrapped his arms around Tim from behind. He pressed his face into Tim's shoulder.

"Whoa." Tim patted his hair awkwardly. "Everything okay, stretch?"

"Fine."

You're no good for him. He's got a soul. What have you got? A company you'd pour your whole life into. Maybe he doesn't want to move because he knows you'll eventually abandon him for your job, reschedule your dates for meetings, forget your anniversary. Because Tim knows, deep down, that you aren't really that different from Jack.

Rhys tightened his grip. He closed his eyes. He kissed Tim's neck.

"Yeah... You don't seem fine. Are you sure?" Tim pried Rhys' arms loose and turned. "Hey." He cupped Rhys' face.

Rhys smiled, wide and bright. "I feel great. I'm here with you." He pecked Tim on the lips. "You hungry? I'm excited to try this dipping sauce."

Tim worried, because it was what he did, but Rhys kept up the act. He kept it up all night. Fake it 'til you make it, kid. Nothing's wrong here.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharp-eyed readers might start noticing certain lines in the prose appearing in italics that were not italicized in previous scenes. If that makes sense. Anyway, it's ~symbolic~ and intentional, don't worry about it.

_THEN_

Timothy Lawrence stalked Rhys' memories. In almost every morsel Rhys managed to salvage, the faceless man was there, somewhere.

What sort of man kept his face hidden, anyway? At the start, Rhys amused himself trying to come up with reasons. He had an accident shaving. A botched facelift.

Maybe he lost it. Long time ago.

Tim Lawrence haunted Rhys. Once or twice, he found his way into Rhys' old office. He walked Rhys back to his room. He ate meals with Rhys and Rhys would slide his foot against his leg. Rhys would lean forward every time he spoke, intent on every word. Rhys tried on a variety of smiles for him. He'd smooth his hair down for him. He'd preen, he'd pull out flashy tricks with his arm, he'd walk him through his old compound, show off all the toys he could. He offered him a job, again and again.

These weren't anodyne recollections, either. Each time, Rhys felt that familiar rush of anxiety and fondness, that feeling of a horrible crush. Blood would rush to his face, his heart would pound, and his palm became slick with sweat. He felt like a teenager. He felt grateful he was alone whenever he pulled these memories free.

Sometimes they would be triggered by outside stimulants, which his doctors warned him about. The first time Rhys drank Eunjoo's homebrew rice wine after the accident, he recalled his first real memory about the field he’d seen only in his dreams, of the blue and golden sky, violet shield glittering above. The damp warmth of steam against his face as he removed the bowl’s plastic covering. Tim Lawrence sat beside him, warm and close but not as close as Rhys wanted.

_"That's... cute. And kinda douchey. Sounds like you."_

 He must've had it bad.

* * *

_NOW_

The dreams didn't stop. Rhys worried about that, worried about the security of his cybernetics, but every diagnostic he ran came up clean. Jack was dead again. For good.

But sometimes he heard _the quiet sound of someone sniffling and trying not to be heard and when Rhys looked up he saw the man seated on the other side of the desk with his head bowed and the tears dripping steadily down his chin, off the tip of his nose, illuminated by the soft glow of his ECHOtab. This wasn't the first time. His face was placid and his brow smooth._

_After a while, everyone looked at Rhys in the same way. If he let them get close, he could see it in their eyes. That desperation, that need. The look that said 'I know you're something special, something important'. That said 'make me special, make me important, take me from this boring life. Save me.'_

_It was almost religious what Rhys was doing to him. He never had use for a confessional, but he had no other language for this. Tim trusted Rhys so much. He looked at Rhys the same way everyone else did. But this one, Rhys would actually save. Rhys would free him from his burdens. Rhys would cut those chains. He would be free as long as he stayed at Rhys’ side._

_Rhys reached out and cupped his cheek with one hand and lifted his head with a gentleness that might've surprised other people, if there were anyone around to witness this. His eyes were glassy when he looked at Rhys._

_"You're alright." Rhys heard a voice that wasn’t his own, felt confidence that wasn’t his own, in the weight those words would have on Tim. "You'll feel so much better when this is all over." Tim blinked, splashing fresh tears over the hands that didn’t belong to Rhys but were his in this dream._

_Rhys leaned down and kissed him on his forehead. Rhys felt certain of this, of everything, an iron-clad sense of rightness that made him want to cry._

_"Alright, precious. Time's almost up, so you know what that means." Rhys pulled back the hands that weren’t his and Tim lowered his head. He tapped the screen once and all that text Rhys didn't even glance at vanished._

_"There you go, pumpkin. All better now?" Tim's tears stopped. Rhys kissed him again, on his soft and unresisting lips. "Go lie down. Sleep the rest of it off. Have good dreams." Rhys smiled. "You earned them."_

Rhys woke up with full-bodied start, heart racing and limbs trembling, back sore from an unfamiliar and uncaring mattress. The room was dark and quiet, but Rhys felt certain there was someone else there, waiting in the corner, or maybe just outside the door. He swore he could hear the self-satisfied monologue of a maniac, but there was no one there.

And then he looked over.

Rhys would never tell a soul what he thought at that moment, for just a split second, when he laid eyes on the man sleeping beside him. Of the feeling that seized his chest. Or the guilt that crashed over him a moment later, that submerged him a wave. He sank back, ground the palm of his hand into the sore socket around his ECHOeye.

Tim, he reminded himself. Tim Lawrence. You know him.

Rhys practised the breathing exercises his doctors had taught him. He closed his eyes and told himself that he was safe, that everything was fine. He acknowledged his fears, and the dream he'd just had. He stopped keeping a dream diary last month and had no desire to pick it up again. Anyway, there was already an entry for this one.

God. Of all the things Jack had done to Tim, that was the scene that made Rhys feel the sickest. The fondness Jack had felt, the tenderness in the way he touched Tim… Rhys' exhale came out too harsh. He didn't know if he should've told Tim what he'd seen. After that horrible moment in an otherwise lovely night, after watching Tim fall apart, Rhys felt better keeping this from him.

Of course, Jack used to lie to Tim too. For his own good.

Tim sighed in his sleep and turned to his side, curling towards Rhys. It was too dark to make out his expression, but Rhys tried anyway because it wasn't like there was anything else to do. He felt bad about earlier.

He forced himself to look into Tim's face and see the man who lived there. Freckles and scars and age lines, things Jack never got or never got in the same place. Rhys apologized to Tim without saying a word. He did it again, but it didn't make him feel better. Tim slept on.

Rhys gave up on sleep a little before dawn, just as the sky started to pale in preparation for the big event. He put on his arm, slipped into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. He needed to do something with his hands.

His mind was a mess. It was an echo chamber, filled with other people's voices.

You're empty inside. All swagger, no substance.

You were no one before me. I made you special.

You're no good for him.

Rhys poured himself a cup, the coffee sloshing a little over the rim of his mug.

And you're already lying to him. You're already pretending for him. I did that too, you know. Well, you do know. You saw it.

He's an easy target, isn't he? Sweet and dumb and lonely and loyal to all the wrong people. Y'ever watch those heart-warming vids where the some idiot dog meets their idiot family for the first time, and they've just gotten out of a crate, and their tail's all waggin' and they're actually crying, they're so happy. That's Tim, basically. And you're the family.

You were the crate, Rhys thought before he could remind himself it wasn't a good idea to engage.

Jack never listened. Not even the echo of him that lived in Rhys' head, the one Rhys couldn't escape.

If you really want to keep him, you need to step up your game.

You need to get that kid away from him, for starters. And all those other people. He shouldn't need 'em. Not when he's got you.

And then you gotta start training him. Give him treats when he's good, and let him know he's only good when he's making you happy.

You gotta make yourself into someone he can't live without, which won't be hard, 'cause remember? That dumb dog metaphor?

You gotta keep him afraid that you might leave, and if you left, you'd destroy him.

Keep him in line. Keep him thinking about you when you're not around. Keep him worried that you might be unhappy with him.

Make sure he understands why it's important that he keep you happy.

After that, he'll be all yours. Simple.

Don't engage, Rhys told himself, even if it was too late.

He brought the trembling mug up to his lips.

There's no one there. This is just your own head, your own thoughts in his voice. You're not like he was. You can't be.

The coffee burned his tongue and made his eyes water, but he didn't care. It gave him something else to think about.

He finished his mug over the sink and he poured himself another when he was finished. He looked around the apartment to find something to do, but Tim had cleaned up before they went to bed last night. 

He's got plenty of weaknesses you can exploit. I knew 'em all. You can see 'em for yourself.

All you have to do is look.

Rhys went outside. His fingers shook from the caffeine and nothing else. He called Vaughn.

_"Dude."_

"Hey, hey, buddy," Rhys said, bright and cheerful. "How are things going?"

_"It's like... I don't even know what it's like. Do you know what time it is? Cause I don't. I can't see my watch because the sun hasn't even come up."_

"Oh damn, is it early there?" Rhys asked. He could hear how guilty he sounded, how convincing it was.

It’s easy, right? People are easy. You already knew how to play the game, even before I came along. We're not so different—

"Anyway, I needed to talk to you," Rhys said quickly.

 _"Why? Is everything alright?"_ He heard shuffling over the line. _"Aren't you out on your big romantic vacation?"_

"Tim's asleep right now. Listen, I just wanted to ask you something real quick."

And maybe he didn't sound so convincing anymore, or maybe Vaughn just knew him better than that, because he asked: _"Is everything okay?"_

"Fine. Just..."

Rhys closed his eyes, tried to plot out his next move in this conversation, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. It chattered away with things he didn't want to hear.

He pushed through. "You and Yvette. When we started at Hyperion, we all kind of decided... I mean, we didn't talk about it, we just sort of..." He swallowed. "Why did you guys pick me?"

_"Uh. Pick you for what? Friendship?"_

"No, no, I mean— Why did you both decide I was the one who was going to climb the corporate ladder for us?"

Silence on the other end. In the absence of a reply, his mind picked up the slack.

They knew you were a winner, dumdum. They saw that ruthless streak of yours. You can play the game better than any of them.

_"I don't know. Because you're tall?"_

Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please, bro. I need you take this seriously."

Vaughn was such a good friend. Anyone else would've hung up on him, or demanded just why the hell he decided to call them at the asscrack of the morning to have a break-down.

_"It's... I mean, it was never gonna be me, right? I did the numbers."_

"You took charge of the Children of Helios, though. Don't talk about yourself like you were some kind of..."

_"Nerd?"_

"We were both nerds. Are both nerds. Anyway, you're a boss down here."

_"Yeah, down here. Up there it was different. The people who made it big up there had a different skillset. You had that skillset."_

Rhys drew Tim's robe tightly around himself. It would get warm soon, but the morning air still had bite. "What about Yvette? She could've done it. She was tougher than both of us and at least as smart as me."

_"Okay, first of all, I'm going to be a real friend to you and not tell her you just said that."_

"Thanks, man."

_"And second of all... She's not as good with people as you."_

"So, that's it? I was a people person?"

No immediate response came. Vaughn was a good friend. Too good to say what Rhys suspected he wanted to say, and too good to lie to Rhys.

 _"You were good at telling people what they wanted to hear. Keeping people happy without actually giving anything up,"_ Vaughn said at last.

Rhys' chest clenched. His stomach wouldn't settle, and a mouthful of coffee didn't help.

"Manipulating them, you mean."

_"That's one word for it."_

People were easy. Rhys knew that. He'd known it all his life.

 _"Do you want to tell me what's brought this on?"_ Vaughn asked and his voice was too kind for Rhys to bear.

"I should get back. Inside. Tim might wake up soon and I should make breakfast."

_"Rhys—"_

"I'll talk to you later."

A sigh scratched in his ear. _"Okay, buddy. I'm here when you're ready to talk."_

* * *

_THEN_

The more memories Rhys reclaimed, the worse he felt.

It wasn't just the physical pain, the ache behind his eye that only worsened when he pulled something free. Rhys could deal with pain. He was, as he liked to tell anyone who'd listen, tougher than he looked, and he'd gone through a lot over the course of his life.

It was the feeling that he'd lost something that stuck with him.

No, that wasn't quite right. A loss he could deal with. He'd grown up losing things. No, it was the feeling that something was just out of reach. Like a word on the tip of his tongue, a snippet of music that wouldn't leave his head and wouldn't unfold into the full song. Frustration and desperation were a bad look on him.

One day, the steam rising from the chafing dishes in the cafeteria reminded Rhys of the stench of rotten eggs and a sunset that took two hours. The image and smell stayed with him, robbing him of his appetite and bringing the headache he'd been wrestling with for days back to a full voiced roar. He retreated to his office and worked until he couldn't.

No one came to pull him out. If he wanted, he could've stayed there past dinner time. He could've stayed there all week.

_"Open up, little piggy, or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll set down explosives."_

It wasn't until Rhys sank down into a too-hot bath that he remembered sitting in the _hot spring, steam rising around him, Elpis hanging above in a violet-black sky. Tim had freckles on his back and shoulders and chest. He'd come from a place called Meneotius and he'd gone to school on Eden-2. For Creative Writing._

The sound of laughter startled him and it was a disorienting moment before he realised it was his own. He clapped his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes.

Every time Rhys tried to pull meaning from what he saw, tried to form a narrative, he felt something open inside of him. That sink hole pulling down what he managed to rescue, leaving him feeling like he'd lost something over and over again.

If he'd felt so strongly for Tim, where was he now? If they had gotten so close, why hadn’t he stayed? Had Rhys done something to him?

Had Jack?

Rhys felt stranded at sea, surrounded on every side, about to sink, the rats already jumping overboard. Everything slipping away.

He stayed in the bath until the water grew cold, his eyes screwed shut, and tried to hold on.

* * *

_NOW_

They ate left-overs for breakfast and didn't talk much. Tim spent most of the meal picking at his food and staring at the table.

Rhys tried, but keeping up both sides of a conversation was a challenge, even for a dyed in the wool blowhard like himself. The topic of Atlas kept creeping into the conversation, and every time Rhys would have to pull himself back. The thought of Atlas made his stomach clench like a fist around what little he'd managed to eat.

Tim watched him as he spoke. He tried to smile now and then, but the line between his brows and the ones around his mouth never relaxed. And Rhys found it hard to look at him.

"The festival's gonna start soon." Tim stared out the kitchen window, tracking the sun's climb. "Do you still want to go?"

"Yeah, of course," Rhys said quickly. It was maybe the most sincere thing he'd said all morning. Tim gave him a brief smile.

"We don't have to," he went on. "If you wanted to maybe stick around..." He looked down at his mug. He rubbed his thumb across a drying coffee stain. "I mean, we can do whatever you want. It's your vacation."

Rhys felt the tension inside his chest ease somewhat. This, at least, was an easy one.

"What I want is to spend time with you." Rhys reached across the table and took Tim's hand in his own. Tim's smile grew a little softer, lost its brittle edge. Emboldened, Rhys went on, "Honestly, that's kind of all I ever want to do these days."

Tim gave his hand a squeeze and Rhys felt it in his chest. "Me too," he said.

Rhys' mouth dried. All of the morning's anxieties, all of his insecurities, all those opinions he'd been taking too seriously, all faded into background noise as Tim rubbed his thumb across the back of Rhys' hand.

He wasn't going to ruin this. He wasn't going to let Jack back into his head. He could be strong. He might be a manipulative bastard, but that wasn't the only thing he could be. He could be good, too. He brought Tim's fingers to his lips.

They got dressed and packed up for the day. Tim assured Rhys there would be things to eat at the festival, which Rhys felt tentatively excited for. The skag skewers hadn't been all that bad, really, even if his appetite had been soured last night.

As they stepped outside, Rhys pulled towards his car, but Tim held him back.

"We can walk, if you'd like," he said. "It's a nice day and it's really not far."

They walked. It was a nice day. After a few minutes of companionable silence, Tim reached out and took Rhys' hand in his own.

"You know, you can always talk to me. If I..." Tim cleared his throat, his gaze aimed straight ahead. "If I've done something to upset you, I'd rather you talk to me about it."

"I'm not upset with you," Rhys said quickly.

"You seemed upset last night," Tim said.

Rhys stared at the dirt road. His black slacks had gotten dusty up to his knees.

"I'm not upset with you," he repeated.

He could feel Tim's stare on the side of his face. He watched dust clouds rise with each step and listened to the shrill singing of whatever insects could survive out here.

Rhys wouldn't tell. There was nothing to say. Tim didn't need to know how bad Rhys could get.

"Well. Regardless, you can always talk to me. About anything." Tim gave his hand a squeeze. "You know that, right?"

Rhys looked up at last with a sunny smile. "Of course."

* * *

Tim whistled low under his breath when they arrived at the top of one of the hills overlooking the grounds. By the looks of people running around, the colourful banners rising beside stalls, and the occasional whine of feedback, things were only just getting started.

Rhys had grown up in a megacity, in a place where the lights on the ground easily outnumbered the ones in the sky. He'd spent his entire childhood and adolescence crowded on every side by other people, on the streets and even in his home. The sound of vehicles and sirens soothed him the way the sound of rain might soothe others. The silence and open space of Pandora had taken a lot of getting used to.

It took some getting used to now, if this was their idea of a festival.

"Quite a turn out," Tim said, sounding genuinely impressed. Rhys hid a smile behind his hand. "What?" he asked.

"You're cute." Rhys kissed him on the cheek.

Everything looked as if it'd been built from scrap and scavenged pieces of near-by abandoned facilities. One stall looked as if it'd been a dome trailer in another life, before it'd been cut open to reveal its hollow belly to the world. It stood on cinder blocks, and a hand-painted sign advertised a hoop game.

Another stall looked like a dissembled bank vault, with the door removed. It had scorch marks along its dented sides that reached all the way up to its roof. Inside, someone had set up a small bar with three stools.

A few stalls looked a little more high-tech. One looked like an average shed that had been upgraded with loaderbot parts. It advertised a virtual experience that required an ECHO hook up.

"Bet this one's for porn," Tim said, eyeing the ECHO address. Rhys snickered, even as he felt a pang of nausea at the sight of one loaderbot's arm propped into a ghoulish thumbs up.

"Only one way to find out," Rhys said, ECHOeye already coming to life.

It was porn. And not even good porn.

A few minutes later, after Tim had stopped laughing and Rhys had gotten someone who appeared at least somewhat in charge of festival content to agree to a more rigorous vetting process, they decided to find something to eat.

* * *

They found a stall that served fried rakk wings, another that served breaded thresher tentacles, and one that offered stewed meats.

"What kind of meats?" Rhys asked, staring into a seething pot the size of a small vehicle.

"Miscellaneous," the cook replied.

"They're from Hunta," Tim whispered as the cook turned to another customer.

"That's bad?"

"That's the next village over. Not sure about their hunters, or their chefs." Tim cast a wary glance over his shoulder. "Ugh. I think I saw an eye."

"Nothing wrong with an eye," Rhys said. Tim looked away with a shudder. Rhys nudged Tim in the ribs. "You're looking a little under the weather. Is the big tough Vault Hunter afraid of a little eyeball?"

"Ugh," Tim repeated.

"They're not bad. Kind of gooey."

"I'm begging you to shut your mouth," Tim said. He honestly did look pretty green.

"You never tried one? You should try one."

"I would rather eat a wormhole thresher."

Rhys nudged him again. "Those have eyes, too. Multiple eyes. Various sizes. The big ones are the best."

"Are you two going to order?" the cook demanded as Tim turned away with a hand over his mouth.

"Sure," Rhys said.

The soup came out exactly as advertised, with plenty of miscellaneous meats. To Rhys' disappointment, he didn't get an eyeball.

They found a place to sit on a hillside, surrounded by families and couples.

"It's got a spice to it," Rhys reported as Tim stripped the meat from a rakk's wing with his teeth. Rhys leaned towards him, holding the bowl under his chin. "You sure you don't want any?"

Tim spat a bone to the side. "Positive," he said, even as he leaned into Rhys.

Two small children ran past with a shared shriek. A little ways down the slope, two young women sat hand-in-hand, both staring in opposite directions. An older couple sat a little to their left, a shared lunch spread between them. A group of friends chattered in a loose circle, a cloud of purple-grey smoke rising above their heads.

Beyond all that, Rhys could see the festival. A banner depicting a crude painting of the moment of Helios' explosion fluttered between two poles. Rhys watched it, his eyes caught on the orange and red flames of the explosion. Had it been like that? He wondered what it must've looked like from below.

He asked Tim.

"Surreal," Tim said. "It happened at night where I was. It looked... I don't want to say pretty. But it was something."

Rhys could imagine it, how striking it must've been. Light and fury. No noise, not that far out. A silent bloom of yellow-blue-white, bright enough to be a second moon. And then it fell apart.

"I remember watching the lifepods fall," Tim said. His voice was a vibration Rhys could feel in his chest.

Rhys remembered watching door after door close, a hallway filled with dead ends. Not enough for everyone. After everything, that hadn't come as a surprise.

Tim wrapped an arm around him. "Rhys," he said, and then he seemed to hesitate. "Is this... Last night, were you..."

Rhys waited, dreading the end of the sentence. God, he hoped Tim wasn't going to ask him if he was okay. He hoped by now that Tim would know the answer. Everyone knew the answer. Rhys was fine. Rhys was always fine.

A set of thumping footsteps saved them both the indignity of whatever might've come next. A small man Rhys didn't recognize came huffing to a stop.

"Lawrence! We've got a bit of a problem."

Tim tensed. His hand fell to his holster. "What kind of problem?"

"Batu and the big cheese from Hunta need to talk to you. Someone's gone missing."

* * *

The little man was the infamous Huang, and he apparently had a flair for the dramatic.

"No one's actually missing," Batu told them.

She stood beside a thing, grey-haired woman. They were crowded into a small, hot shed that only felt smaller and hotter with Rhys and Tim inside. It was filled with machines, including some of the consoles Rhys had worked on yesterday. An over-worked air conditioning unit rattled in the corner, and that was its only contribution to the atmosphere as far as Rhys could tell.

"We've lost a judge," the grey-haired woman explained.

"Tim, this is Sarai, mayor of Hunta." The tall woman inclined her head. "Sarai, this is our new judge, Tim Lawrence."

"Pleasure," Tim said. "What kind of judge?"

"The fire fight tourney later on," Batu said, wiping her brow down with a rag. "One of the protectors from Ylend was going to do it, but she's too wasted to stand. We were hoping you could take her place."

"Fire fight?" Rhys asked. "Like... with water?"

"With paint," Sarai said, giving him a strange look.

"Paint guns," Tim said. "Fire fight as in a gun fight. Competitive paint ball."

"Aw, you would've done really well at that," Rhys said.

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't gonna participate. Didn't seem fair." Batu snorted. "Anyway, I had no incentive. Last I heard, the prize was still TBA."

Sarai glanced at Batu.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Batu said breezily. "We've found something. So, you'll do it?"

Once outside, Rhys unbuttoned his shirt a little more as he fanned himself with his other hand. Tim wiped down his forehead with his bandanna.

"I don't have to do it," he said.

"It shouldn't take long," Rhys said. "Anyway, they're right. You are the best candidate for the job. I'm not sure why they didn't ask you in the first place."

"Because I would've said no," Tim grumbled as he adjusted his bandanna back into place.

"It'll be fun." Rhys slipped his arm around Tim's waist. "And it'll be over by dinner."

"I was hoping we could spend the day together," Tim muttered, his cheeks turning pink above his make-shift mask.

Rhys couldn't handle this. Tim was almost ten years his senior, and he could still blush like that. Rhys kissed the bridge of his nose, which made him turn a brighter red.

"We'll still have all night. And all day tomorrow." Rhys leaned close, until his lips were just inches from Tim's ear. "We don't have to go anywhere tomorrow."

Tim tightened his grip on Rhys’ hips. "That's a good point." He tugged down his mask.

"I make a lot of good points," Rhys said, running his hand up Tim's back. "I'm not just a pretty face, you know."

"I know," Tim said, looking unbearably fond. He kissed Rhys.

Behind the shed, sheltered from public view, they indulged themselves. Tim's lips were soft and warm. Rhys felt like he knew them pretty well by now, but he enjoyed becoming reacquainted. He let his hands slide down to another part he knew pretty well. Tim chuckled into his mouth.

He broke away, grinning. "We can't—"

"Lawrence, is it true? Are you—oh my god I'm sorry." Miqa ducked out of sight just as Rhys yanked his hands up to a more PG location. Tim sighed and let his head drop onto Rhys' shoulder.

"Yikes," Rhys murmured.

"Something I can help you with, Miqa?" Tim asked without looking up.

"Just wanted to ask you about the prize thing. I was going to ask if your boyfriend was okay with it, but it seems like you guys've worked it out."

Rhys hoped Tim didn't notice the way he flinched.

Tim looked up at last, his brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? Batu didn't tell me anything about the prize," he said.

For a few seconds, Rhys could listen to the hawkers yell their wares and offers uninterrupted.

Finally, Miqa said, "Oh."

* * *

After what Miqa told them, Rhys expected the whole confrontation to be a little more dragged out. It was a mistake to assume the people involved would have an ounce of shame.

Batu gave up the game immediately. "Yeah, you're the prize. One date with a stud. We cover the meal. Good deal, right?"

Tim's face had gone red above the line of his mask. It would almost be comical, that tomato-bright forehead, those dramatic brows drawn low over mismatched eyes. A very small part of Rhys could appreciate the humour.

"I'm not doing this,” Tim said.

"Why not?" Batu asked.

Rhys wondered if he should disarm Tim before he did something they would all regret.

Tim closed his eyes. He took a long breath, the line between his brows smoothing.

"Because you didn't ask me first," Tim said. "Because you knew I would say no. Because Rhys is _right here._ And anyway," he went on loudly, as Batu opened her mouth. "No one's gonna be interested. Everyone knows who I look like. Who would want that?"

Everyone stared at him. Rhys patted his shoulder.

"Oh, come on," Tim said.

"Just relax, will you?" Batu said, her smile dropping. "We're not pimping you out for a night."

"That's exactly what you're doing."

"It's just a harmless dinner date."

"I'm already on a date. Right now. It's bad enough you've asked me to take break from it, but this is too far," Tim said, his voice climbing in volume.

"He's staying for a few days, I thought. Right, Rhys?" she asked. Rhys opened his mouth but she continued before he could speak. "And I heard you two weren't exclusive."

Rhys nearly bit his tongue. Son of a bitch.

Tim very carefully didn't look at Rhys. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Did I hear wrong?"

Tim didn't respond. Rhys was too busy fuming to say a thing.

Of course. What sort of mother wouldn't do anything for her son? Rhys almost found it admirable.

He wished he and Tim could've talked about this before. Rhys should've taken the opportunity sooner, but he kept thinking about how Tim had reacted that first night.

Anyway, they'd been through a lot already. Was it a crime to want things to be easy, to be stress-free for just a minute?

"That's none of your business," Tim said at last, but Rhys knew it was too late. They'd paused too long, and Batu had her eyes on Rhys. She must've seen how he squirmed. He felt relieved he hadn't taken Tim's gun away. Things would be no better if it were in his hands.

"I'm not doing this, Batu," Tim said. "You should've asked me first."

"What part of this arrangement upsets you so much?" Batu asked.

"The part where I'm treated like a piece of meat doesn't thrill me," Tim said.

"The dinner's gonna be paid for," Batu went on, ignoring him. "And you'll be out with someone who knows how to shoot a gun. I don't see a downside."

"For the last time, I'm _seeing someone_. Right now, in fact. You interrupted us."

Batu moved her mouth like she was chewing on a piece of tobacco. "You won't even tell me if you two are serious," she said.

Tim shut his mouth. Rhys took a breath and looked away.

It wasn't a big deal, he told himself. One dinner didn't mean anything. He wasn't going to push Tim into a commitment he wasn't certain he wanted to make. He wasn't Jack.

Batu gave them both an unimpressed look. "You boys can't even answer a simple question. How old are you again?"

"None of your business," Tim said stiffly. "And you can take that as an answer to both questions."

He wasn't Jack. He wasn't.

Rhys finally spoke up. "It's fine, Tim."

He sounded cool and casual, the way he should've sounded and looked from the start. Like this was all just a joke that he understood but didn't find particularly funny.

"A dinner isn't really a big deal. And we'll have all day tomorrow." He clapped a stunned Tim on the back. "Right?"

"Um. Right." Tim stared at him.

Rhys smiled back, the special corporate smile that didn't reveal a single thing.

"That settles it!" Batu said, clapping her hands together.

Tim looked hard into Rhys' face, but Rhys knew he wouldn't see anything of substance. He held his gaze without a flinch, without a wince.

"I guess so," Tim said, sounding faintly surprised.

* * *

This time, Rhys found himself alone behind the shed.

He could play the games he needed to play to stay on top in the corporate world without breaking, but when it came to lying to Tim...

God, it never felt good. But Rhys had been backed into a corner.

What else was he supposed to do? Force a confrontation then and there? Demand they define the terms of their relationship in front of near-strangers? He couldn't imagine anything more humiliating. Better to play it cool when the alternative was that.

But that didn't mean he had to like it. To hell with Batu, and her stupid prize. Rhys had no idea what her end-game here was, or even if she had one. He'd gone toe to toe with corporate cut-throats in his glass tower again and again, but he'd never encountered someone as inscrutable as the bartender. Was she as guileless as she seemed? Was she trying to help her son at the expense of his relationship with Tim?

That _would_ be embarrassing. Rhys almost felt bad for Jupiter.

"Ma, the crew's looking for Fang. Have you seen her?"

Speak of the devil and you shall hear his muffled voice through the sheet metal.

Jupiter had come in from the front, by the sounds of things. Rhys knew he wouldn't be spotted, hidden where he was. He let his head rest on the sun warmed wall and listened.

"...already told them she was out for lunch..." He heard the door slam, and heard Batu's growling voice fade away as she stomped off.

Good riddance, you old crone.

The door creaked open and shut once more and he thought he heard a man's sigh. Rhys stiffened with recognition.

Someone cleared his throat. "Hey, Lawrence."

Oh, his voice still cracked. Poor kid, Rhys thought without a lick of sympathy.

"Oh, hey."

Silence.

"You okay? You kind of look..."

"Fine. Sorry. Where's your little pack of ankle biters today?"

"They're not mine. I don't know where they went. With their parents, probably." Too tough sounding, too defensive. "I'm not their babysitter."

Rhys heard Tim chuckle, heard how strained it sounded.

"Yeah, fair enough. I didn't mean anything by it."

Another painful silence. Rhys found it easier to focus on this drama than to think about what he'd just done. The mistake he might've just made.

"Okay."

Had Rhys ever been like that? He'd never been good with feelings, but he didn't think he'd ever gotten borderline hostile over them. No wonder Tim hadn't caught on to Jupiter's true intentions.

"Um."

Rhys tried to imagine what Tim would be doing. Waiting politely. Hands in his pockets, or resting at his hips. He'd have his bandanna back on, almost certainly. Maybe now and then he would cast a look out to the crowd beyond the open door. Trying to catch sight of someone. Maybe looking for Rhys.

Everything was a gamble, Rhys knew. He just had to stick it out. He wasn't about to let some kid and his over-bearing mother step between his relationship with Tim.

"I heard you were the judge," Jupiter said. Practically blurted. Rhys did wince.

Tim laughed, short and bitter. "I'm a lot more than that," he said.

"Oh. Really?"

Smooth.

"If you were thinking about participating in the fire fight, I should warn you now: the prize isn't very good."

"Wrong," Rhys whispered.

"Oh." Jupiter tried, god help him, but he just didn't seem very good at playing things cool. Again, Rhys tried to remember if he'd ever been that bad. Tim might've been able to tell him.

"A, uh. Dinner, I guess. With yours truly." Rhys imagined Tim's face turning pink. Predictable. "Not sure what your ma was thinking."

Jupiter chuckled. "Um. Yeah, she can be... weird. But I thought you, and uh..."

He trailed off. .

"I should probably head out," Tim said. "Thing's supposed to start soon, and I should be there. I hope I didn't give you a scare just now. If you still wanted to play, I'm sure we could just see about giving you prize money or something."

"You think I'll win?"

"I wouldn't bet against you."

Rhys could imagine what that would do to Jupiter's expression. Tim laughed.

"Knock 'em dead, kid. I'll see you there."

"...Okay. Bye." Too small and quiet. No way Tim would've heard him. Maybe that was the point.

God. Rhys couldn't let himself get jealous over this. It wasn’t as if Rhys expected Tim to run off with someone 20 years his junior.

But that wasn't what bothered Rhys. The things Jupiter had said last night still rang in his ears. The insecurity and doubt wouldn't leave him without a fight.

 _Was_ he good for Tim? What could he offer him, really? Jupiter looked at Tim like he was the only thing worth looking at. Could Rhys say the same? Even when he was ten years younger, had he ever looked at anyone like that?

He gave his head a shake. No point in dwelling now. He had his plan. He made his bed. Time to lie in it.

The fire fight sign-in desk wasn’t far. There was a line, but not much of one. A painted sign advertised a start time less than 20 minutes away.

The woman at the intake desk smiled at Rhys as he approached.

"You interested in signing up?" She took him in, his suit, his lack of weapon, his soft hand, and flashy cybernetics, and her smile grew teeth.

Not all together friendly, he noticed. Well, everyone loved a show.

"I would love to sign up," he said, as bright and enthusiastic as a boy on his first day of summer camp.

* * *

_THEN_

After a while, Rhys got fed up with trying to remember. What did he get from it, other than more problems? Each new revelation came with something ugly, like someone had snuck a scorpion’s stinger into a slice of cake.

Tim Lawrence hung around like a spectre, a faceless son of a bitch with nothing to offer Rhys except more distractions, more issues. More hurt. Tim Lawrence was a knot in Rhys' chest, a lump in his throat, a fluttering in his stomach. He made it hard for Rhys to catch his breath.

Honestly, Rhys should’ve gotten angry sooner.

His doctors may have had advice to give him, but Rhys had started lying in his reports to them. He wrote about small things, insignificant things. He filled his reports with recollections of meetings so dull he nearly fell asleep writing about them. He wrote about meals he could remember taking. He didn't write about the phantom he ate them with.

Because fuck Tim Lawrence.

When Rhys woke up one morning with dried tears on his cheeks, he knew this couldn’t go on. He couldn't just wait around for someone who had no reason to come back. Someone who shouldn’t have left in the first place.

Tim Lawrence might've stuck around for a while, and maybe he'd meant something to Rhys before, but it didn’t now. And maybe Rhys had done something to drive Tim away (or maybe it hadn't been Rhys at all, but the thing inside his head, but there was no good end to the path that thought would take him down), but the people who really cared about Rhys stayed.

Rhys tried to go on with this in mind, but it didn't stick. He couldn't put his finger on what exactly was wrong with him. It felt like he'd caught something, or he was fighting something off. He felt... wrong. A weight settled on his chest and it wouldn’t budge.

He tried to focus, ignore it, work past. He threw himself into his work, because there was always more work to do. He kept long days. He made himself available to everyone in his company. He handled petty concerns. Answered emails at all hours. He ignored meals. He tried to lose himself in being the CEO of Atlas.

But this thing lingered with every thought, in every waking moment. Rhys felt sick. Haunted.

And it followed him into his dreams.

It lasted about a month, before Yvette called reinforcements in. Within a week, Sasha and Fiona were back in Opportunity.

They pried Rhys from his office, threatened and cajoled, and took him up to the roof with a pilfered bottle of hooch from some Pandoran bar. They didn't tell him what it was, but its scent made Rhys' sinuses tingle, and a mouthful made his eyes water. It tasted like rocket fuel, but he was already out and they weren't going to let him leave, so he kept drinking.

The sisters told him about their travels. Fiona kept up her treasure hunting gig, focusing more on Eridian ruins than the vaults themselves.

"Vaults are nothing but trouble," Sasha said.

"Amen to that," Fiona said. She knocked back a fresh slug.

Rhys let his head fall back against the wall behind him. Sitting on the ground didn't do his lower back any favours, but he was too far into the bottle to care.

"What about you, Rhys?" Sasha asked. She swayed forward as she spoke, her cheeks pink. "You still focusin' on that Epidermis project, or what?"

"Epimetheus," Rhys corrected. "Although we changed the name. I think."

"You don't remember it?" Sasha asked, squinting at his face.

"Not yet," he said. She narrowed her eyes further, like he'd said something suspicious.

And maybe it was the cheap hootch he drank, or maybe it was just weeks of pent up frustration looking for an outlet, but he found himself compelled to confess.

He took the bottle from Fiona’s unresisting hand. "I'm not sure it's worth remembering. Any of it. What's the point? Obviously it fell apart. Obviously everything went horribly wrong. Again. And, I don't know, maybe I should remember what I did so I don't do it again, but maybe I should just give up. Keep that door closed." He took a drink.

Sasha tapped her fingers against her necklace, nails clicking against coloured bone. She looked over to Fiona, who wasn't looking at either of them.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Sasha asked.

Rhys didn't slam the bottle on the ground, but it came close. Anger sparked behind his eyes, pounded in his chest. It felt like a fuse had been lit, something so sudden that it overcame him in a wave of heat.

"What does it matter?" he said, struggling to keep his voice under control.

"I don't know," Sasha said, oblivious. "I guess I thought that maybe you'd care more."

Rhys laughed. The sisters shared an alarmed glance.

"I wish I didn't," he said. "I wish I didn't care at all. I'm getting nothing from it. Who the fuck was Timothy Lawrence? Why didn't he stay?"

To Rhys' alarm, his voice thickened on those last words and his eyes began to sting. His throat felt tight, like an invisible hand had started to squeeze.

"Why won't any of you just tell me?" He had to force the words out, and they came out rough. "Was it something I did? Was it—"

The name felt large in his throat and Rhys nearly choked, but he was so angry. He didn't care if he had to rip it out, if he had to bleed to speak the name out loud. It felt appropriate, even. He gripped the bottle's neck like a weapon.

"Was it Jack? Was it him? I don't give a fuck if it gives me an aneurysm, just _tell me."_

Sasha looked down at her feet. Fiona stared out at the ocean. Neither spoke.

Rhys put his head in his hands. Something swelled up inside his chest, pushing out air and everything else. He felt its pressure inside his head, squeezing the moisture from his eyes. He didn't know if he wanted to cry or to scream. He knew he didn't really want to do either in front of his ex-girlfriend and her sister.

He flinched when felt arms around his shoulders. He looked up to see Sasha with tears in her eyes. She pulled him, stiff but unresisting, into a hug.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It was him. But you already knew that."

"Sash," Fiona snapped.

"I couldn't tell you the full story even if I wanted to, because I don't know it," she said, ignoring her sister.

As suddenly as it had come on, it'd left and Rhys felt like a man in the aftermaths of a demonic possession. He felt like everything had been pulled out of him. Numb all over.

But not numb enough. His vision blurred.

"My birthday," he said quietly. "You were all there to celebrate. It was supposed to be a surprise."

Sasha nodded.

"But Tim spoiled it for me. He didn't even have a gift."

Tim hadn't even known. Someone told him. Rhys remembered that he hadn’t minded. He remembered thinking about potential, about possibilities, and everything he'd been working up to, all those meals, all those walks home, leaning too close, touching Tim, playing footsie. Rhys had wanted to move forward. He’d wanted to see if there was any possibility of a future between them. Mostly, he’d wanted to kiss him.

The sisters remained quiet. Rhys could barely tell what he was doing. His head felt hot and light.

"We didn't even get around to eating dinner because we were too caught up. You brought me appletinis," he said.

"That was Yvette," Fiona said quietly.

Yvette and Fiona, both of them seated across from him, beside each other. Fiona conscientious of Yvette's space, and what she had to say. Yvette with a keen eye on Fiona's glass.

"We got drunk. Tim took a breather. I followed him out and none of you noticed."

Conversations overlapped, and voices soaked in alcohol shouted to be heard over each other. Every now and then the room would break into laughter. It'd been easy to slip out, unnoticed.

"I found him."

Drunk and startled, Rhys didn't even give Tim a chance to push him away.

"We kissed."

He'd missed the first time, but that was fine. It'd given Tim a chance to stop things, if he’d needed to. If he’d wanted to.

But Rhys had found him the second time.

Rhys closed his eyes, and just let himself relive that moment. When Tim had finally let his guard slip. When he’d trusted Rhys, if only for a moment.

"What happened next?" Fiona asked.

Leaving the memory of the hallway was like pulling himself out of the warmest bath, the softest bed. Rhys did so with great reluctance. Maybe because part of him knew what came next.

Tim pulled away. Rhys shut down, got angry, threw accusations.

Alarms.

Rhys wished he could pull away from that moment. He wished the next part would be too blurry, he wished for a rush like a river.  
Instead, it came over his head like the tide and he was left to drown.

Epimetheus and Etna. The would-be destruction of all his good work. He plugged it into his head.

He sucked in a breath that sounded like a sob.

Tim outside. Tim with Malady. She'd nearly killed him. And then, for a brief and awful moment, Rhys wondered if she had. And then something inside of him wished she had.

Horrible. What a horrible thing. He had something horrible gaining strength inside of him.

And there was the man without a face, with blood on his arms, standing in the ruins of Rhys' dream, of his biggest accomplishment. The first time Rhys had recalled this scene, he'd misunderstood the direction of his anger.

"Oh god," Rhys murmured. "His face."

He could see it now. In the line of his jaw, the shape of that hawkish nose. He saw it clearly as he must've before.

Doppelganger. 

* * *

_NOW_

A baker's dozen of competitors gathered in the tent, and more were coming as word spread that things would begin soon. The mood of it, of all those tough-looking customers with guns at their hips, reminded Rhys a little of the Splatterdome.

If word of the prize spread, Rhys didn't hear it. Most of the people there only seemed interested in showing off. Rhys heard a few references to Tim, but nothing direct. Just talk about the judge being a vault hunter—a real live killing machine.

Rhys wondered if anyone knew what to make of him. He could imagine the gleam of his cybermetics might've caught a few stares. They usually did.

Normally he would preen, but his heart wasn't in it. His head felt trapped in time, stuck repeating that moment he'd told Tim it was fine, everything was fine. Jupiter's young man voice, telling Rhys he was empty inside.

And Jack's voice, under all that. Not saying anything worth hearing, but Rhys couldn't help but listen. He always listened.

A shadow engulfed the tent’s entrance, Jupiter blotting out the sky the way his namesake might've. Rhys didn't know a thing about the classics, but he had been taught the same facts about the old sol system, same as every other kid. He could recall that Jupiter was the biggest one.

Jupiter the boy caught Rhys’ eye. He looked surprised, but it didn't last long. He scowled at Rhys. He didn't look so young whenever he made that face, Rhys noticed. Hadn't his mother ever told him it'd stick that way?

Rhys couldn't even muster a smile in response. He didn't want waste the energy.

The PA crackled and a voice informed the competitors it was time to move into the field. Everyone would start in their zones, and everyone had been assigned a zone before entering.

There were no teams, but temporary alliances weren't against the rules.

Rhys eyed the crowd and wondered if it was even worth trying. Or if anyone would take him up on the offer.

Competitors could only use the weapons they were given, and they had all been given the same style of pistol, the same paint pellets.

It wasn't a race, but a few people still ran when they were told to take their positions. The match wouldn't begin until everyone was in place.

How do you prove to someone you care about them? That you weren't just around for a good time? That you were serious? Rhys felt like he struggled to answer those questions through every one of his relationships, all the way back to his first girlfriend in sixth year. He gave her a bracelet, one of a matching pair. She stopped wearing it three weeks later.

Trust was an easy enough thing to lose. One wrong move and the game would end.

_You want to keep him. Don't you?_

Rhys found his place, drew his pistol, and waited for the bell.

* * *

_THEN_

In a just universe, that would have been the end of it. The biggest block had been cleared away and the memories should've flowed through. He had a name and a face. An origin story. What more did he need?

But there were other blocks. Specifically, one large, glaring one between that first recovered memory—Tim in the fresh ruins of Atlas, arms bloodied, face blank—and Rhys waking up in the finest medical facilities on Pandora, snug in Opportunity's citadel.

Sasha's confirmation of his long-held suspicion filled in some of the blanks. That gap in his memories, he knew that was where Jack had lived for a brief time. Rhys thought it was maybe better to let sleeping dogs lie.

His doctors were pleased, at least. They told Rhys that his diligent work had proven a few things about the way cybernetics interface with grey matter, and how the human brain can adapt to massive trauma. ALCH3MY proved that memories were malleable. His recovery proved that things weren't as easily erased as they believed. That maybe the cybernetics hold imprints of memories that could, potentially, rewire the way the human brain accessed memories.

Rhys smiled and nodded through it all. He hadn't yet told them about everything else he’d remembered. The things he knew couldn't belong to him, but he remembered as if they did.

The worst part was how bad it didn't feel. The worst part was how easy it was. He could close his eyes and slip under once again, find himself back in another man's office, sitting across from the person with Jack's face. The person he now knew to be Tim. The pity, the revulsion, the anger and frustration he felt as if it were his own heart, his own thoughts. Slipping into the skin of a monster as easy as falling asleep.

The worst part was how, underneath it all, he could feel an old fondness. A sweet regard that scared the hell out of him, because it meant softness. Because it meant he had something to lose, and that would never do.

_Not this one. We've come too far. Made in your own image, made into a killer, a pretty little package just for you you you. You'll break him again and again until you get it right, until he's yours forever._

Jack was gone. Rhys could ask if they were sure. He could reveal what he'd seen, what he kept on seeing, but all it would do is confirm what he already knew for himself. Knew it because he'd been going into the systems himself, he'd gone over every report himself, run every diagnostic and written a few new ones just to be sure. Maybe it had something to do with the way the AI's memories interfaced with Rhys' cybernetics.

It was true, what they said. No one was ever really gone so long as you remember them.

* * *

_NOW_

It might've surprised some people, just how well Rhys could do in this little tournament.

That was because Rhys knew what he looked like. He knew how people saw him: a crèmepuff, a pampered poodle. Scrawny little weakling with shiny boots and expensive clothes. A rich push-over.

The others in his zone only had eyes for each other, the three of them dressed like settler bandits, masters of their own image. They reminded Rhys of his Hyperion days, dressing like a killer before he knew what a killer really looked like. One even wore a red bandanna around her neck.

Back when Rhys and Sasha had been dating, Sasha would take him out to the firing range and let him play with her guns. She didn't take it very seriously at first, but after some punk made an attempt on his life while he was out examining an abandoned factory with his team, she sobered up a little. The first time after that little brush with death, she dragged him out as soon as he had a clear spot in his schedule and kept him there until sunset. And she only let him stop then because the light had gotten too low to see by. She found him the following week and did it again.

Even after they split, Rhys made a point to go for at least an hour once a week. He wasn't good. He couldn't handle guns as naturally as Sasha or Tim could, but he was better than he had been.

He was good enough to survive that first round. He got two and narrowly missed getting hit in return. The other survivor took off after Rhys at full tilt, head bowed and charging forward like a bull until she was almost within arm's reach, like she'd forgotten she had a gun in her hands. Rhys slid on the grass, changing course quick enough to catch her off-balance and shot her in the side. She fell down as if he'd gotten her with a real bullet.

There weren't enough unique colours for everyone, but they'd done their best. Rhys' latest victim, who'd wiped out on the grass as soon as he'd shot her, had green pellets in her gun.

Rhys' had yellow.

The horn blared again, signalling the end of round one, and a cheer rose from the stands Rhys had been trying not to look at. Rhys looked around, scanning for a head count. He ignored his pounding heart, and his shaking hands. He ignored the way it felt when he'd gotten his first victim, a splash of yellow on his chest. He ignored the way it felt when he watched the last woman sprawl out on the ground.

They walked away, he reminded himself. No one would die today. Not in here.

He desperately ignored the very small part of him that felt disappointed. That wasn't really him. He wasn't that man.

His ECHOeye finished its count and gave him the bad news. Eighteen people remaining, including Jupiter. Rhys checked the load-out of his pistol, just as he'd been taught.

He'd been lucky, that first round. He'd been fast, and playing on their expectations of him, but mostly he'd been lucky. Hopefully no one still left standing in the field had seen how well he'd done. He'd need to take advantage of their perception of him for as long as he could.

After a few rounds, even that wouldn't be enough. He'd have to be good.

It's just a game, he reminded himself.

_We can do this. We can get them all. You'll show them. He's yours._

Rhys took a shaking breath. He'd always been a bad loser.

* * *

_THEN_

Rhys had always been a planner. A schemer, even. From an early age, encouraged by the regimented system he grew up in, Rhys plotted out each stop in the road map of his life.

School, then university (with extra-curricular activities, clubs and frats that offered connections, looked good on his resume), then the right internship, then impress the boss, then entry-level job, then climb climb climb.

The one time he played it by ear, actually tried to improvise, he ended up stranded in a death desert, lost on Pandora, and swept up in a series of hostage situations. Or, really, one unbroken mental hostage situation.

It had taken him almost fifteen years to build his life up to where he wanted it. It took less than a week for everything to fall apart.

But even in that aftermath, Rhys did what he did best. He planned his next move, and then the one after that, and the one after that. Atlas rose under his watch. Projects developed. His wardrobe expanded. Things looked good.

Rhys looked out his office window. He took in the mirrored surface of all the buildings that sat dark and mostly empty across from him, and the golden sea beyond it. Everything looked good in the sunlight. Opportunity was a multi-faceted jewel.

Did that hole in his memory really matter? Did it really matter how he'd gotten here? Did it really matter who brought him here?

Rhys closed his eyes and told himself it didn't. He opened his eyes and told himself again.

Tim Lawrence didn't matter. He hadn't stuck around. And for the first time, Rhys could admit to himself that maybe Tim made the right choice. That gap in his memory, a white glare in his mind's eye, felt like a condemnation.

Because he could feel the ghost of someone else's memories, someone else's regard for Tim in the very periphery of his thoughts. He could feel it the way he could feel the pause between what he meant and what he wanted to say when people still asked him—still!—just how he was doing. He could feel it behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. Something lurking in the dark.

Anger and fear. Resentment and frustration. Longing. How could you leave me the way they always leave me, how could you be just like them you were supposed to be mine you said you believed in me you said you wanted me you always wanted me me me.

All that ugliness. That must've been Jack.

Rhys was different. He could let Tim go. If he had to. If it was for the best.

He told himself to let Tim go. He turned the sentiment over and over, chewing on it until he could swallow it whole. He kept it up, a simple mantra, as he worked through the day, as the sun dipped down, vanishing into the sea. He told himself again as he left for the day, as he walked back to his loft, as he looked out the windows down to the streets below.

But his mind betrayed him. He thought about a man who could wade into a battlefield without fear, but who would tremble at the heights Rhys took for granted. A man who would rather walk seven flights than take an elevator. A man who faced against those fears, who came to Rhys' rescue, who risked his life, all because Rhys asked him to. All because Rhys said please.

Rhys tried to sleep on it, but the monster in his dreams filled his head with horror stories.

In his dreams, he put Tim behind a locked door and swallowed the key.

In his dreams, he pushed Tim down onto his desk and buried him in blue-violet light.

In his dreams, he pulled Tim’s tongue out, his eyes, took his hands off of his wrists, his head off of his neck, as easy as dismantling a loader-bot. He took Tim's voice from his mouth and cupped it up to his ear just once, a bright shining thing that felt warm and wet like an exhalation. He stored every piece of him in a box, the way he'd been taught to do, carefully labelling each one.

As he did it, he talked out loud and told Tim just how safe he'd be, how quiet things would be.

I'll keep you good and warm. I'll never let anyone hurt you. We'll be together. I'll never miss you again.

In the way of dreams, Rhys came back the next day or maybe the next year, only to find the boxes open and the door unlocked. Tim standing in the centre of his work room, dressed in one of Rhys' nice suits. Black with golden pinstripes. Rhys' colours. He walked up to Rhys with a smile on his face and Rhys knew he should run. Isn't that what monsters did, when their victims returned to them, alive and well? But Rhys couldn't move.

Tim took Rhys' face in his hands and if there were any justice in Rhys' mind, Tim would've twisted his head around. He would've pulled Rhys apart.

He pressed their foreheads together.

Not today, he told Rhys. And certainly not for you, stretch.

Rhys felt the pressure fill up his head, his throat, pushing against that hollow ache in his chest. He felt it hot against the back of his eyes. This wasn't going to work. He couldn't leave things like this.

I miss you. Rhys might've said it in his sleep.

He woke up, tears still wet on his cheeks.

* * *

_NOW_

Never, in all of Rhys' wild imaginings, would he have come up with this.

He stood opposite a seventeen year old boy, with a pistol loaded with yellow paintballs in his hand, a wide field between them, the stands out in the distance, where the people cheered. Rhys and a kid named Jupiter. The last people standing, waiting for the count-down. Sudden death.

Jupiter held his little gun in a tight fist. His knuckles looked like marbles under his tanned skin. He didn't take his eyes off Rhys as the organizers cleared the paint-splattered detritus from the field.

A few former competitors shot Rhys nasty looks as they filed out, little unintentional offerings to the bonfire of Rhys' confidence, because they all said the same thing: we underestimated you and we were wrong.

It wasn't even an effort to smile. It didn't cost him a single thing to aim it into Jupiter's scowling face. Rhys felt light. He felt the way birdsong sounds after enduring a long winter. A breath of fresh air, the promise of better things to come.

_This is a done deal. These idiots deserved every hit. They deserved worse for trying to stand between you and what's yours._

Batu approached them from the stands, casting a wary glance that bounced off of Rhys' self-confidence like a pebble against a tank.

"Quick draw," she said, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard by the audience. She raised her hand. "When I drop, you draw and fire. First one shot, loses."

"What if we both hit?" Jupiter asked, pulling his gaze from Rhys for the first time since they got there.

_This little punk is the worst of them. He's the reason for this whole waste of time. What does he know about you, anyway? What does he know about Tim?_

Rhys pulled in a shaking breath.

_You make Tim happy. You're good for him. And he belongs to you._

"The _first_ hit, I said," Batu replied. She held a small device in her other hand, sleek and black and shining like a fat beetle. "We'll measure it."

Rhys' ECHOeye picked up on its signal, almost without him noticing. It was a simple thing, a rare one-purpose device, designed to measure velocity at whatever the user aimed it at.

Rhys' eyes narrowed. The user, who just happened to be the doting mother of one of the competitors.

_These stupid back-water bandits. How dumb do they think you are?_

Batu raised her arm. Rhys kept his eye on the device in her other hand. It wasn't cheating, exactly, to just nudge his way into its systems.

He held his breath. The sounds from the stands died away. Batu held her hand as high as she could. Across the field, Rhys could see Jupiter's bulk, his dark clothes obvious against the blue sky, the green grass. A stupid kid with a paint gun.

_He should be grateful this isn't the real thing._

Rhys adjusted his grip. He breathed out.

Batu dropped her hand.

* * *

_THEN_

Rhys had no point of reference for what he was going through. He didn't know what to call just what kept happening in his head. Haunted felt like a good start, but it didn't feel like the whole story.

His dreams didn't stop. They got worse, more esoteric. In them, Rhys found new ways to keep Tim trapped, locked away, close, all his.

Rhys pulled Tim apart, buried each piece in a new country, on a different moon, on asteroids locked in a planet's gravitation. He built new locks, devilishly complicated mechanisms, each specially designed just for Tim, for the pieces of him Rhys wanted to have for himself.

Once, he took Tim apart like it was a final exam he'd been studying for all night. For months. Years. His whole life.

Rhys took Tim’s hands, his wrists, his forearms. He worked his way down one side, and then up the other. Shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, knuckle to knuckle to knuckle.

Rhys pulled Tim’s spine out, gripped the knob at the back of his neck and pulled until it slithered out like a snake. And then he separated each vertebrae with a twist and a pop, and he put them one by one into little black boxes.

Rhys took Tim’s ribs, which took a while, because the ribcage wasn't designed to come apart. He lined them up in velvet, stored them in a polished walnut box, the kind his mother kept his grandmother's silverware in before she pawned it. Rhys took Tim’s feet, and every toe.

Rhys peeled Tim’s skin, folded like a silk dress. It felt slippery and soft over his arm, dry and warm.

Tongue again, and all the teeth. The soft, feathery feel of his voice. Jaw bone too. Each eye, green and blue, smooth and polished, nestled in shiny red boxes. Locked up behind a golden padlock.

Stomach and guts. All the pink and grey and white and wet things people kept inside. Rhys named what he could, and made up names for the rest, because he wasn't a doctor. Each one into a special casket.

A line of keys grew at Rhys' side, stretching out into the next room, some as big as his middle fingers, others as small as a thorn. He'd swallow each one.

The heart went last, of course. Rhys was a philistine—what did he know of poetry? But he knew about hearts. He knew this was the best part.

He held it in his clean hands, an organ like a bird with its wings tucked close. It was smaller than Rhys thought. For a moment, he thought about swallowing it too. He thought about opening the hinge of his rib cage and tucking it inside.

He wrapped it in silk and placed it on a velvet pillow. He closed the lid of another shiny box as gently as he could, knowing this was the last time. His last chance to get it right.

It ended the way they always ended, every last one, and Rhys could cry with frustration.

Because there was Tim, whole and unbowed, surrounded by broken boxes with the dust on his palms that Rhys could feel when he took Rhys' face into his hands, with the smell of gunsmoke on his clothes. Freckles on his face, his neck. Rhys put his fingers against a constellation on the sharp ridge of his cheekbone.

No need for that, Tim said as Rhys' tears spilled over his fingers.

I just want you to stay. Just tell me how I can make you stay, he begged.

Tim pressed them close together, forehead against forehead, close enough that Rhys could taste each exhale.

You already know, Tim told him. He rubbed his thumbs across Rhys' cheeks, against the soft skin under Rhys' eyes.

Rhys woke up sobbing. He pulled his pillow against his face and screamed until he couldn't, the way he used to when he was a helpless kid.

Because he did know. He'd known all along. If he wanted Tim back, he had to fill in that last gap.

He had to know what Jack did to them both.

* * *

_NOW_

The sun felt so good, even as it began to list towards the horizon. Golden bright, setting the sky on fire. Rhys could taste the sweetness in the air, fresh grass and smoke from small fires, the scent of cooked meat and spilled drinks on soft soil.

Who would have thought the scrawny, well-groomed corporate d-bag could've gone toe-to-toe with Batu's boy and beaten him at his own game? Batu's boy, who shot up like a weed when he turned twelve, who looked after his ma for all these years, who learned how to shoot his first gun before the last of his kid teeth fell out. And it'd seemed such a close one, too. So close that people could've sworn he'd hit first.

The device's read-out was clear. Numbers don't lie.

A few people came up to congratulate Rhys. Fang shook his hand, told him he wasn't as dumb as he looked. Miqa slapped him on the back and told him they'd make a proper Pandoran out of him yet.

Or a proper bandit.

 Jupiter looked down at his gun, up at Rhys' face, over to the device still clutched in his mother's hand, all with the expression of someone struggling to find out why two plus two came out as five.

Rhys caught his eye, just for a split-second. He smiled.

Tim joined them at last, pushing his way through the growing crowd. A few people shied away, a few more cast uneasy looks to the back of his neck. Rhys hoped Tim didn't notice.

"You idiot," Tim said, unbearably fond. He was grinning. Rhys could see it in the wrinkles around his eyes.

Tim took Rhys' face in his hands, the way he'd been doing it for days now, the way Rhys had been dreaming about for much longer. Rhys could feel the grit of sand on the pads of his fingers. He could smell smoke and rakk meat, soap and dried sweat. Rhys tugged his mask down and kissed him.

_Mine._

A few people hollered. Someone let out a wolf whistle.

Rhys didn't mind the audience. He would've held on longer, but Tim pulled back, his face bright red, grinning bashfully. He tugged his mask into place, but the damage was done and everyone had seen what he looked like when he was in Rhys' arms.

"So." Rhys beamed at Batu and Sarai. It was hard work to keep from looking too smug. "That's dinner for two, right?"

"We can just ask for the money," Tim said in an undertone while Sarai started counting funds from her purse. "I can make us dinner."

"After this caveman display? I risked life and clothing for you," Rhys reminded him. Tim rolled his eyes. "I'll take the offered prize, thanks. The dinner is the whole point. Right, Batu?"

Rhys couldn't resist. Not when triumph felt so good, a victory sweeter than the first bite of ripe drakefruit on a hot day. Almost as sweet as the look on Tim's face. This moment in the golden sun would live with Rhys forever.

Batu only spared him a brief look, a quick wave of her hand. Her mind appeared to be elsewhere, her expression drawn and severe. She gazed out at the crowd with a small frown on her face.

Confused, and maybe a feeling a little robbed of his chance to gloat, Rhys followed her gaze.

Jupiter was gone.

* * *

_THEN_

Rhys sent a message to Yvette, letting her know he was taking the day off sick. He'd been awake since 0300 and he couldn't tell if he was lying to her or not. Any other time, she might've come and check on him, partially out of concern and maybe partially just to make sure he wasn't playing hooky. But Fiona was still in the city, and he knew that she wouldn't come looking for him.

 _Rest up_ , she sent back. Brief and to the point. He could picture her getting ready for the day, to take over or put off all the things Rhys was supposed to be responsible for. It made him feel guilty to think about it, but he did it anyway because he didn't want to think about what came next.

He wished Tim was there with him. Rhys made his bed and thought about what it would be like, if he were. Tim would've avoided the windows. Maybe he'd be in the kitchen, working with the espresso machine to get the morning started. If he were there, he might've been able to give Rhys the words he needed to describe just what he intended to do.

Rhys could remember that Tim had been good with words. He could remember a lot of things about Tim. All the pieces he'd been putting together for weeks had finally assembled and Rhys could enjoy the privilege of just accessing that information.

He could remember the way Tim had panicked the first time he'd gone underground in the Atlas' old facility, when he disarmed one of Rhys' security guards. He could remember how he'd stayed on the line with Rhys after, the way Rhys could hear his breathing over the connection.

He could remember shared dinners, a phantom gaze behind an empty face, the way his neck would turn red, all the freckles on his shoulders and back, just how badly Rhys had wanted to count them, put his fingers, his mouth on each one. 

The way Tim's face had looked, unmasked at last, when he looked at Rhys. His chin trembling, his eyes glossy. Rhys felt his own shame and guilt anew, fresh as the first time, hot behind his eyes.

Two months together, all of it like a book in Rhys' head. Missing the last chapter.

Rhys debated getting coffee, maybe eating one of those protein bars Eunjoo had been ordering in (cookies and cream or peanut butter and chocolate, complete meals, nutritionally balanced).

He sat down on his bed instead, stared out the window as the tinting began to change and the rising sunlight touched the edges of the glass buildings. A line of light like the edge of a razor on each and every one.

No, Rhys decided. No coffee, no breakfast. No more waiting.

He'd gotten good at this, over the last four months. A trigger helped. Something to jostle his sense memory. Scent was the best one, but Rhys didn't want to know what sort of smell would bring these memories home.

He'd seen the wreckage of the Prime building, the place where Hyperion stored all its finest work, the modern equipment, the fancy labs. He'd seen the hole an explosion had ripped through the hotel floor. He'd seen the dissembled loaders, broken turrets scorched black and slumped in their casings.

Start there. Rhys called up the old security feed on his palm. Yvette had locked down the files for the actual event, but the empty aftermath remained declassified. Rhys looked at the broken doors, at the pieces of machinery, at the burned debris. Bullet holes and scorch marks. The familiarity of it all nagged at him, worse than ever before.

One room in particular caught his eye. A presidential suite, one of many, intended for the most VIP guests in what would have been a very fine hotel. That room saw more destruction than the others, although there were no bullet holes inside. The furniture had been smashed. The couch gouged, stabbed over and over, its insides pulled out. The chandelier hung in pieces, the very tip of one crystal touching the floor.

Had there been a fight? But there was no blood…

A lump rose in Rhys' throat. He didn't have Tim's way with words, but Rhys could picture himself on the edge of a vast and empty pit. Shadows too thick to see through to the bottom. No way of telling how far he'd have to go. And no one around to make sure his grip didn't slip, that he wouldn't break his neck.

Don't get over-dramatic, he told himself. It was already over. Whatever happened, happened.

All you have to do is remember, and anyone can do that. Jack is— _was_ just a man. You've faced off against giant teleporting alien monsters, for god's sake. This is nothing.

Rhys looked at the ripped couch and thought about the knife he’d used. He thought about the feel of the handle in his hand except it wasn't in the fleshy one, but _the metal one because he was right-handed. He was on a time-limit, he knew. Timmy had gotten himself free (somehow? Even though those straps had been as tight as he could get them. Had they snapped? Had there been a tear? But he'd checked...) and he got his clones with him._

_God, that really stung. More than Jack wanted to admit. That had been his gift to that asshole ingrate. Jack had built them himself, poured all his beautiful brains into them, and this was what he got? This was his thanks?_

_The couch shuddered with the force of his first stab but it wasn't enough. He wanted Tim there, under his hands, where he belonged. He wanted his blood on the floor. He wanted to hear him gasp, that familiar wet rattle in his throat. Jack stabbed again and again._

_This is what you do to me, Timmy. This is what you are. You've always destroyed every nice thing I tried to do for you._

And here the memory fractured and Rhys could remember sitting silent shot-gun as Jack raged, as _Jack's own memories took them both back to the sight of security footage to a locked room, where Tim paced like some neurotic animal, like he might start chewing on his leg the way dogs did when they were all worked up. Jack checked in on him from time to time, observing footage like a scientist coming to a conclusion. Or a kid checking on his virtual pet._

_Jack almost felt bad about killing Tim's ECHOtab, but it'd been getting kind of sad, watching him send message after message. It'd been cute at first, but for fuck's sake, Tim. What sort of grown man threw a temper tantrum over a little alone time?_

_Jack flicked the feed off just as Tim stalked into his kitchen. Fuckin' finally. He'd better have gone in there to grab some of the meals he'd been refusing._

Rhys came back with a gasp, like he pushed his head above water for the first time in minutes. His lungs ached. His eyes stung. He slumped over, uncurling his legs, and holding the back of his neck with both hands while he struggled to catch his breath.

Just a man, he told himself again. A dead man. He can't hurt you again.

Rhys waited until his breathing slowed. He tried to wait until his heart calmed, but he realised he might've been a long time coming.

He straightened upright once more, closed his eyes, and tried again.

* * *

The trouble was Jack.

The trouble wasn't just trying to remember what Jack had done while he'd taken Rhys' body on his farewell tour, it was trying to remember everything else.

Jack's AI mind was designed to act just like its human counterpart's, and Jack was a multi-tasker. He could dismantle loaders, pull out circuit boards, jury-rig overrides, write fresh code, create new machines that would ignore his actual, rightful voice, his rightful body, all the while thinking over everything he intended to do, and all the things he'd done before.

It was like standing in the heart of a hurricane as it swept through the country-side, digging up small homes and tossing them into the air. Rhys watched pieces of other people's lives swing past, ripped apart by the gale-force rage in Jack's head.

Jack was so angry. It made him manic. It sent his thoughts careening down a thousand different paths, and Rhys could barely hang on. If the winds whispered closer, they'd surely tear him apart. He pulled in tight and tried to stay out of it.

But Jack had his eyes to see with, and Rhys still had to watch as Jack _stalked Tim through the darkness of the needle room, as he moved close enough that he could take a swing with Rhys' own arm, the one Rhys had built when he had nothing left to his name but the blood-stained and dirty clothes off his back and his ingenuity piece of paper. Jack aimed that beautiful arm right at the back of Tim's head and it would've caved his skull in, it would've crushed the life out of his brain, and Rhys wanted to cry out loud._

_I'll protect you, Tim, I'll stop this I'll save you I won't let him—_

Rhys could feel his present-tense body trembling. He might've started crying again. It seemed like he barely stopped.

_When Tim got the upper hand, got Jack pinned and actually knocked his skull against the ground, Jack took only a second to collect himself, plan the next attack. And it came to him easy, because this was all upside down, this was where Timmy belonged and Jack knew the best way to remind him, he knew where Tim was softest, the weakest._

_He opened his mouth and begged and pleaded, all in his best impression of little Rhysie._

Rhys wanted to stop. He wanted to pull himself back home, to curl up under his sheets and forget the whole rotten thing, pretend it never happened. Ignorance was better. Anything would be better than this.

But Rhys needed Tim back, and Tim needed him to remember. Tim would never say it, but Rhys knew it was true. He tried to imagine hunting Tim down after all this, looking him in the eye, and pretending that everything was fine. Forcing Tim to be the only one of them to remember what happened, make him carry the burden of it alone. It wasn’t right. It made Rhys feel ashamed for something he hadn’t even done. Rhys wouldn't be able to build anything with Tim if he didn't see this through.

He took a breath. He would see it through. He watched _Tim's face contract with pain, watched his eyes fill with tears as Jack lied to him over and over. Rhys wanted to scream. He felt as if he'd been screaming all along._

_Not me not me please Tim please don't fall for it you're so close please—_

_Jack knew Tim so well. Rhys could almost feel it when Tim touched the tips of his fingers against Rhys’ chin, gentle like he was afraid of hurting Rhys._

_That was how it started. The feeling of his fingers so soft against his sore jaw. The look on his face. Rhys realised that for as angry as Jack was, Rhys was angrier._

_This was his body. This was his project. His arm and his eye. He built it up from nothing, from less than nothing, and he did it all because Jack had taken everything from him. He did it because he had no choice and because he could. He built so much with his bare hands and he did it all without breaking anything down._

_Fuck you Jack, you were wrong before and I'll see you begging for mercy again you son of a bitch._

_Rhys barely noticed when Jack reversed his position, put Tim under him. He noticed when Jack wrapped Rhys' own goddamn hand around Tim's throat, when he started to squeeze._

_His arm. His eye. His company. His nice goddamn suit. And Tim—_

_Rhys had built this, too. And if Jack thought he could take that away, if he thought he could break that down, he had another fucking thing coming._

_Jack didn't even notice, all of his attention focused squarely on squeezing Tim's dying breath from his throat. He didn't feel Rhys pulling the strings of his own hand back until it was too late to stop him._

_Jack wasn't elemental. He wasn't the cold, crushing water. He wasn't a bright and painful light. He wasn’t a tornado._

_He was a man, and an asshole, and he was wrong. And Rhys was stronger than him._

_He pulled his fingers back, just an inch, as much as he could manage. Tim drew a shaking, rattling breath._

* * *

Fiona responded to Rhys’ message quickly. Maybe she'd been expecting something like this. Maybe with Yvette occupied with everything Rhys should've been doing, she had nothing better to do than kill time on her ECHOtab. Rhys didn't spare too much thought to the whys. He felt tired.

The room felt cold and cave-like, neither of which came as a surprise to Rhys. It looked as if it hadn't seen life since two men tried to pummel each other to death all those months ago. The needle sat in the centre of the room, behind foot-thick safety glass, partially dismantled and silent.

Rhys tried to turn on the lights, but the systems were damaged, and everything had been locked down. It didn't matter. The blue-violet eridium glow was enough.

People had come through only to clean up what Jack had left behind, but signs remained. Rhys found a dark stain in the middle of the floor. He stared at it for a while, cradling his cybernetic arm, just thinking.

He'd built that arm himself. He'd scavenged the pieces, designed new systems, sautered and screwed. Blood, sweat, and tears might've been a cliché saying, but Rhys really had bled for it, on it. He'd sweat. He’d even cried, more than once. Frustrated and alone, all he could do was rebuild. And when he’d finished, he went through the effort of shining the arm, polishing the metal until it he could see his face in it.

And Jack had used it like a sledgehammer.

Fiona found him, finally, almost fifteen minutes after he’d sent his message. Rhys wasn't surprised when she walked in. He'd heard the elevator clank its way up and then back down the shaft.

She whistled low as she stalked into the room. She had her hands on her hips, her lips quirked up at the corner. Playing it cool.

"This place has seen better days, huh?" she asked. She looked around. "Are there no chairs?"

Maybe there were, but Rhys hadn't gone looking. He was on the floor, a half-empty bottle of rice wine held between his knees.

"Yvette said you were sick," Fiona said.

"Where is he?" Rhys asked.

Fiona frowned, her cool façade beginning to slip. "Vaughn? Back in Helios, I thought. You can't find him?"

Rhys closed his eyes and took another drink. He didn't have it in him to play games, to fight, to do all the little verbal tricks he could normally do so easily.

"Tim. You were the last person to speak to him before he left," Rhys said. "Where did he go? Did he tell you?"

Fiona looked down at the bottle in his hands. She sighed.

"How'd you figure that one out?" she asked as she took a seat beside him.

"Yvette mentioned it," Rhys said. "Back when she thought I'd given up on all this."

"But you never did, did you?" Fiona took the bottle from his unresisting hands.

Rhys pushed his hand through his unstyled hair, a weak effort against the headache already pounding against his skull.

"No," he said.

"What do you remember?" she asked.

"All of it."

Fiona wiped the lip of the bottle with her sleeve and took a long drink. "That's too bad."

Rhys buried his face in his hands. The ache in his head was growing by the minute, crawling down the back of his neck, finding root in the tension in his shoulders.

He wondered how his body felt after that fight, after he'd flung himself into Jack's shock trap. He let his eye rest on the dark stain in the middle of the room, and everything he'd fought so hard to remember clamoured to be heard above the sound of blood in his ears.

Tim had hit him, before all of that, but not hard enough.

"This was my fault," Rhys said.

Fiona tapped the bottle against her calf. "Maybe. I don't know enough about what happened."

"You're actually waiting on more evidence before you pass judgement?" Rhys snorted quietly. "That's new."

She nudged him. "A gal can learn her lesson. Anyway, I wasn't wrong before. Gortys and everything had been your fault. You went up to Jack's office, you said yes, and you never told us a thing."

"I would've told you this time," Rhys said.

"From what I've put together, it seems like it all happened pretty quickly," Fiona allowed.

"I didn't even notice. I should've noticed." Rhys' voice became heated. "How could I have been so stupid? Again? After what happened in that Atlas factory, with Callum and the rest, I should have gotten someone to look over my cybernetics. If I'd just gone in for a diagnostics—"

"But you didn't." Fiona pressed the bottle against the back of his hand. "It's over, at least."

Rhys took it. "I lost Atlas," he said.

Fiona looked around. "Lost seems a bit much. You didn't lose Atlas, it just... changed. Now it's a really cool city of the future."

"I thought you hated Hyperion stuff," Rhys said.

"I've grown accustomed to some Hyperion stuff." She nudged him again. He tried to smile. "Yeah, it's a shame about what happened to the compound and... what happened to your people."

Rhys' smile drained. He could barely feel it happen. "It was my fault."

"You can beat yourself up about it, if you really want," Fiona said. "But you don't need me for that."

Rhys leaned against Fiona, let his head rest on her shoulder. It wasn't terribly comfortable, she wasn't a very soft person in a lot of ways, but she was sturdy.

"Did he tell you where he was going?" he asked.

She patted him on his thigh. "I have a pretty good idea. Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Seeing Tim again was the only thing he was certain he wanted. Pretending as if Tim would be there when he was finished with his trip down memory lane, that when Rhys opened his eyes, he'd find Tim seated beside him, with the wreckage of a hundred broken wooden boxes scattered around him. His boots on Rhys' clean sheets, hands folded neatly on his soft stomach, freckles on his face, and so close that Rhys could lean in close, press his face into the crook of his neck and just inhale the smell of warm dust, hot asphalt, the desert, the open road.

"I'm sure. Just... tell me. Please."

Fiona took the bottle from him again. She took a drink, and then she told him.

Rhys left the next morning.

* * *

_NOW_

They found Tim's bike, but Rhys wasn't about to let that death trap ruin his lovely evening. Tim agreed to walk it back home. It was a nice night.

"I still can't believe you did this. I didn't even know you could shoot like that."

The lights came on slowly, each string of yellow-white and fat lanterns left up to the hands and whims of the individual proprietor. But as soon as one flipped their switch, the others started taking their cue.

Rhys looked over his shoulder to watch it all happen. He could hear a band scratching out a tune, the sound amplified by the sound system Fang had jury-rigged yesterday.

Rhys wanted fireflies, just to complete the image, but it was too early in the year. And anyway, he had no idea if they lived out this far. If they even lived on Pandora at all.

"I'm full of surprises," Rhys said. Tim only shook his head. He hadn't stopped grinning since the kiss. He'd thoughtfully pulled his bandanna down, allowing Rhys to fully enjoy every look he wore.

"Sasha taught me, after someone tried to kill me almost a year ago," Rhys said.

Some of the mirth drained from Tim's face. "Someone tried to kill you?"

"Lots of people try to kill me. That's how we first met, remember?"

Tim's expression flipped. He frowned at Rhys.

"Aw, don't. No one's trying to kill me right now." Rhys patted Tim’s arm. "And nobody's succeeded yet. I'm luckier than I look."

"You are," Tim agreed, still looking unhappy. "I suppose I should thank Sasha."

"You could always give me pointers." Rhys sidled closer. "Opportunity's got a nice gun range. You could take me out there one night. Hold my hips, adjust my stance, help me stare down the sights..." Rhys sighed.

"If I pull you out to the range, it'll be for work, not for play," Tim said severely, even as his eyes twinkled.

"We'll see about that," Rhys said. "Anyway, my skills are pretty sharp, as you've seen for yourself."

That didn't bring the grin back to full force, but it pulled at the corner of Tim's lips. "I hate to say it, because your ego doesn't need it, but you were kind of impressive out there."

"Of course I was," Rhys said.

"Was that your plan the whole time?"

Rhys reared back, offended. "Of course it was!" he said. "What, you think I would agree to that ludicrous deal otherwise?"

"Kind of risky, though," Tim said.

Rhys sniffed. "It paid off."

"Shame about Jupiter. Wonder where he went off to," Tim said.

Rhys couldn't even pretend to care. He wanted to hold Tim's hand. He wanted to kiss him again. He wanted to lead them off the road and into the weeds because Tim's little house was too far away, and Rhys was getting impatient.

Rhys gave into temptation. He reached across the bike, took Tim's shirt in both hands, and pulled him close, pulled him into a kiss. Tim went easily, his grin back to full wattage.

They kissed slow and gentle, the way people sometimes sing about; under the twilight, with the sound of not-very-good music and drunken cheers on the breeze. Rhys felt there should've been fireworks too.

He cupped the back of Tim's head, running his thumb against the small hairs there, and let his other hand slip down his back. Tim broke away just as things were about to get interesting.

"We should..." he said. It seemed as if he'd been saying variations of that since Rhys had come to visit. Trying to herd them back to privacy, to decency.

Rhys gave his very nice ass a squeeze. Tim could keep on trying.

Tim laughed. "We should head back," he said, but he was already leaning over the bike, his head tilting forward. Rhys didn't even need to guide him.

So obedient.

Tonight, he decided, they would talk about labels. Rhys would be kind about it, but there was no harm in wanting to put a name to whatever they had, was there? They were both adults.

Tim needed time, but what about what Rhys needed? Didn't that matter? He needed stability. He needed security. Tim would understand.

They found their way home eventually. Rhys even managed to behave long enough to keep them from detouring. He had eyes only for the front door, where he could pull Tim inside, where he could continue what he'd started, what he kept on starting as often as Tim would let him. Rhys was so preoccupied, his mind firmly in the gutter, that he missed the figure lurking in the shadows the house cast to its side.

Tim's eyes were sharper. "Jupiter!"

Jupiter stepped from where he'd been trying to hide, out into the orange-pink light.

Rhys realised, amidst his growing frustration and disappointment, that this would be the second time in as many days that he would have to deal with some kind of sunset confrontation with this kid.

Jupiter's gaze darted from Rhys' face to Tim's. His big hands were curled up into big fists. The colour of his face was hard to read, but Rhys thought he might've been flushed, like he’d run the whole way here. His expression was easier to see. He looked angry.

"Lawrence. I wanted. I wanted to talk to you." His voice shook. Once again, Rhys couldn't tell if he wanted to feel sorry for him or not. What kind of amateur tries a maneuverer this risky without steeling themselves first? Who actually let their enemies hear such an obvious weakness? Big as he was, in that moment Jupiter was no better than a bunny flopping over in front of a wolf.

His words caught up with Rhys. He breathed in sharp.

"Right now?" Tim asked. He was trying to tug his bandanna up over his face again, and Rhys could tell he was trying to be subtle about it. It was perhaps the least subtle movement anyone could make.

"We have plans," Rhys reminded him, lowering his eyebrows.

Yes, Jupiter was almost certainly flushed. He gave Rhys that old, familiar look.

"Is it important?" Tim asked.

Jupiter nodded, his mouth shut tight.

"How important?" Rhys demanded.

"Is it your ma?" Tim asked, concerned.

Jupiter shook his head. He wasn't looking at Rhys anymore.

"It can't possibly wait until tomorrow?" Rhys tried to stay cool. He kept his voice calm.

This kid wasn't a threat to Rhys. Jupiter was barely a threat to the other kids in the village. He was just an overgrown child with a daddy complex and some odd notions about compatibility between two people he didn't even know.

" _I really need to talk to you please_." Jupiter’s words came out in a breathless rush.

This kid was nothing. He was nobody. Why was Rhys' heart beating so hard? He looked over at Tim, but Tim's attention was fixed on Jupiter.

"Alright, Jupes," he said. "Whatever you need."

Rhys wasn't proud of how he felt in that moment. He grabbed Tim's hand. "We had plans," he said again.

"We still have plans," Tim said, gently pulling away. "This won't take long."

Rhys' fingers felt cold. He wanted to grab Tim by the arm and pull him inside. He wanted to kiss him again and again, on every part he'd already kissed at least a dozen times, because it would never get old, and because Tim would let him.

Because Tim belonged to him.

Tim and Jupiter were already walking away, off to the side of the road. Rhys lingered on the front door, watching them depart. He bit his lip.

What could Jupiter say, really? He had no proof that Rhys had done anything. Rhys had made his way to their match fair and square. Jupiter had nothing.

What if he confessed? What if he told Tim all about you? He saw right through you and it only took him a few minutes. He doesn't have to break the two of you up right now. He can just plant the seed.

_You need to stop this. You can't let him feed Tim a bunch of lies._

Rhys heart thudded against his chest. He broke out into a cold sweat. This was ridiculous. Jupiter was a child.

_He's a kid Tim likes. Maybe even trusts. I warned you. You have to monopolize his time. Isolation is the only way to guarantee control. Any idiot should know that. You should've known that. Should've known better._

Rhys sat down on the front step, barely hearing it creak under his weight. He could feel his pulse pounding inside his head. He watched Tim and Jupiter finally come to a stop, too far for the sound to travel.

Had he really cheated against some kid on a game?

_If you lose him, it's on you._

Rhys swallowed hard. How could he have been so jealous? So ruthless? Jupiter wasn't exactly a nice kid, but he wasn't awful. He didn't deserve to be humiliated like that in front of everyone who’d ever known him.

Jupiter stepped in front of Tim, almost within reach. He had his arms folded tight over his chest. He had his head lowered. Tim listed forward, shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. Listening.

Rhys played out the scenarios in his head. He could run forward and pull Tim away. He could light the house on fire. He could get into his car and drive. He could go inside and make them a pot of coffee. He could start dinner. He could find one of Tim's guns. The future was an open book, an landscape filled with possibility.

Rhys stayed where he was. He watched Tim lean back slowly. He watched him turn his head, just a little, just enough that Rhys could see a sliver of his face. Rhys didn't know if he should look away. Maybe he should have gone inside, given them some privacy. Too late now.

He promised to give Tim time. He promised to give him space. He wanted to give Tim everything he asked for, and everything he didn't ask for. But he couldn't stop himself from needing things too.

Was that so bad?

_You already know the answer. You know what to do next. You were doing so well before. All you have to do is stay the course, bring him to heel, and you'll get everything you want from him._

Rhys hugged his knees to his chest. Tim had turned away, but Rhys couldn't bring himself to stop watching.

Stupid, he told himself. You're being stupid. You're panicking over nothing. This was just a silly distraction.

Tim placed his hand gingerly on Jupiter's shoulder. The kid's head snapped up, and he stepped back, as if Tim's hand were a snake that'd fallen from high branches. He raised his voice enough that Rhys could hear it across the grasslands, although he could not make out any words.

Jupiter went quiet, the storm passing as quickly as it’d come on. Maybe Tim filled the silence. He let his hand fall to his side. Jupiter shook his head. He barked out a short laugh, as loud as a gunshot in the creeping night. He turned on his heel and stalked off.

Tim watched him leave. Rhys watched the scene as if it were on a screen. The troubled, handsome hero and the idealistic, lost teenager. Puppy love thwarted.

_By you._

No. Not me. Things would've happened like this if I'd been here or not.

_Would he have gone for this dopey sunset confession if it weren't for you? Would he have cornered Tim like this? You pushed things._

_I'm not trying to condemn you for it. Hell, I think you did the right thing. But you needed to go further._

_When Tim comes back, let him know you're not happy. Let him know he's the reason. This whole situation's unacceptable. You shouldn't have to feel guilty. You haven't done anything wrong._

"Hey, Rhys." Tim spoke quietly as he approached. The shine had gone out of the visible half of his face. "You should..." He stopped.

Rhys looked up, breathing in deep. He felt a little disturbed to feel the inhale trip in his chest, to feel it stop in his nose.

Tim's brows drew together. "Rhys. Are you okay?"

Rhys blinked and felt something warm hit his cheek.

He was, he realised, crying.

* * *

_THEN_

Rhys felt as if he spent the four hour drive from the fast travel to Karamay in a sort of trance. He worried over every possibility, his mind playing out each one for him as the landscape sped past.

He would see Tim again.

He would see _that face_ again.

Tim might tell him to leave. He would have every right to turn Rhys away. Shut the door in his face. Rhys told himself he was ready for it, if it should come to that, but even as he made promises to himself, to Tim, that he would be sane and stable, his heart pounded out its own vow.

He told himself he would let Tim set the tone. He imagined knocking the door down.

He told himself if Tim told him to leave, he would go. He imagined clinging to the doorjamb like a cartoon character about to be hauled off by the authorities.

He imagined clinging to Tim. He imagined seeing that face again.

"You can do this," he told himself. An old trick, to say it out loud. As if by speaking he could bring the idea from his head and into the real world. As if by having it inhabit the same space as Rhys, outside of Rhys, he could make it manifest.

"You will be calm."

Karamay was inching closer, although he couldn't see it beyond the blue fog. The landscape curved gently under his tires. The flat grasslands he'd gotten used to became complicated by geography. Rhys tapped the steering wheel.

"Just start with an apology," he went on, carrying the conversation past the next landmark.

What if Tim didn't want to listen? Rhys could make him. Rhys had worked so hard to get here, to put everything together. Didn't he deserve something in return?

He didn't intend to ask for much. He just wanted Tim back. If only for an hour.

Rhys imagined the life Tim had built for himself. He imagined a home, warm and lived in. Tim had been so reluctant to settle down in Atlas, to stay with Rhys.

Rhys had checked before heading out. A man matching Tim's build, a man who wore a mask all the time, had taken up residency in Karamay.

And four months was a long time to stay in one place. As the next marker flashed past, a new, horrible possibility bloomed in Rhys' mind. What would entice Tim to stick around?

Every time Rhys imagined Tim on the other side of that door, he pictured him alone. But that might've just been wishful thinking.

Start with an apology. He breathed out, flexed his fingers on the wheel. Let things go from there.

And if Tim wasn't alone, if he didn't want to hear what Rhys had to say...

Rhys struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat. Anger he had no right to feel made his head hot, turned his face red, burned behind his eyes.

The fog swept across the rolling terrain. Rhys' technical sliced through white-grey fuzz, leaving tendrils waving in the wake of his tires. He could see the grey rain ahead of him, solid as a wall.

Start with an apology. Don't think about anything else.

Karamay appeared on the horizon at last.

* * *

_NOW_

The sky had given up the theatrics of the sunset, the vivid colours fading into a solemn navy-black. Without the competition, the night settled in, one star at a time. Rhys wished, for the first time since he arrived, that it was raining. He wished for the companionable sound of rain on glass and tin, for the clouds that huddled low to the ground, as if the sky itself were trying to reach down. Rhys missed that intimacy. The open sky almost felt like a threat.

Rhys could hear the sounds of Tim in the kitchen. The shuffle of ceramic and metal, the hiss of water put to boil. Twice, now, Rhys had sat in Tim's living room, listening to him prepare a pot of tea, unsure of where the next few minutes would take them. He wondered if this is what Tim did when he was nervous, or uncertain. Fuss around in the kitchen, set a small portion of the world in order.

Rhys wished time would stop. He wished he could lock himself into this moment. Atlas was working on new technological breakthroughs all the time. Maybe one of the seven thousand or so departments Rhys had approved in the last few months had started up a project on time management. Maybe somewhere in Opportunity's mirrored buildings, someone was perfecting the control of time. Rhys could think of a few moments he'd like to live in, if he had the choice.

Watching the sunrise the night he graduated, when he found a moment's peace on the wrap-around balcony, with the alcohol fading from his system, listening to the sounds of the party inside. He was the only person out there not making out with anyone, and for the first time in his life, Rhys didn’t mind being alone.

Coming home after the weeks-long hospital stay, when he got his arm at last, to lie down in his own bed, between his own clean sheets.

The first time his new ECHOeye powered on, all alone in the Atlas compound, and he'd never felt so empty, so clean.

And here, in Tim's home, listening to him in the kitchen.

"Hey." Rhys startled at the sound of Tim's voice, so unexpected in the otherwise still room.

Tim stood in the doorway, a mug held in each hand. White steam twisted as he gently held one out for Rhys.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Rhys tried to summon a smile. He took his mug, the same mug he'd used yesterday, the one with a chip on its lip and a hairline crack under the shine. His mug, he supposed.

Tim sat down beside him, the old couch groaning a little under the added weight, complaining as it always did. Rhys liked to think they would get too enthusiastic and actually break the thing, one day. He could buy Tim something new and nice, something sleek and sturdy. Something that would fit in perfectly in their apartment in Opportunity. Rhys blew away a tendril of steam.

"How did things go with Jupiter?" Rhys asked, desperate to put off the inevitable.

Tim took a sip of too-hot tea with a wince. "Fine, I guess. It could've been worse."

"Did he tell you?" Rhys asked.

"Tell me what." Tim didn't even pretend to look confused.

"Did he confess?" Rhys pressed, undeterred. Tim looked away.

"That's really none of your business," he said, soft and firm.

Rhys looked down at his mug, ashamed. "Right. Sorry."

Tim pushed out a soft breath. He shifted a little, and Rhys could feel him getting a little closer. "It's fine. He's just a messed up kid."

Rhys knew that. He'd been saying it to himself for days now. But somehow, hearing Tim dismiss poor Jupiter and his puppydog crush in the same way made Rhys feel genuine pity for him.

"It's hard for him. Batu's nice enough, but she never let any man stick around for long. His dad was never in the picture, as far as I know." Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "It can be tough, growing up without a strong male figure in your life." He sounded bitter.

Rhys tapped his fingers against his mug. He didn't know much about Tim's history, or about his parents. He knew that his mother had died, but he never heard anything about his father. It didn't feel right, asking him about it now.

Tim didn't speak immediately. He followed Rhys' gaze and stared out the window, but the lights outside had gotten too dim and all they could see in the glass were their own blurry faces, looking back.

"Can..." Tim sounded hesitant, uncertain. So unlike himself. "Can we talk about this?"

Rhys looked at his lap.

"Outside just now, and yesterday too, you seemed... Upset?" He glanced at Rhys' face. "I don't know if something happened. If something went wrong back in Opportunity. Or..." His voice tripped, a stumble in what sounded like an otherwise well-rehearsed speech. "Or if it's something I did. You can tell me if it was," he said quickly as Rhys looked up.

"It's not you," Rhys said. He felt like a liar saying it, even though he knew he wasn't. "You didn't do anything wrong, Tim." That part, at least, felt true enough.

Tim didn't look convinced. He held his mug tight with both hands, his shoulders pulled inwards. The stance was so awful and so familiar that it made Rhys' stomach twist.

"Right," Tim said. "Then, what is it? You can talk to me, Rhys. About anything you need to. I— I mean, I might not be the good at a lot of relationship things, but I like to think I can be an okay listener. I really want to make you happy. I mean, not if you don't want to be happy. If you don't want to be happy, that's fine, we can be unhappy together, but I just hope you know that you can always talk to me." Tim shook his head, his face turning pink.  "Boy, I should've written this down first."

Rhys smiled weakly. Tim returned it. He reached out and gripped Rhys' human hand, tentative and soft.

"I'm here for you, Rhys. Whatever you need."

God, Rhys wanted to believe him. He looked down at their linked hands and imagined telling Tim everything. He thought about Jupiter and his little puppydog heart, and his moony face.

 "Do you want to talk about what's wrong?" Tim asked.

Of course not. Rhys wanted to take them both into the bedroom and forget about the whole contest, about Jupiter's hurt, his big heart. About the wheedling voice like the scratch of a nail against a coffin's lid inside Rhys' head,

_No, no, no. Tell him you're pissed off. Tell him it was his fault. You shouldn't have to feel like this. He should take better care of you. He needs to know his actions affect you. He has to be more careful. More attentive._

Rhys could push this whole thing aside. He could play pretend for as long as necessary. Forever, if he needed to. He promised Tim that Tim would only ever get the best version of himself, because that was what he deserved.

Rhys straightened a little, forcing his body into a more confident space, as though it could make his thoughts follow suit.

Tim watched him, slumped over his mug. Spine and shoulders curved, head lowered, chin clenched. Brave and miserable. So familiar.

"Do you think I'm like Jack?" Rhys' voice cracked, snapping over the question he didn't intend to ask.

Rhys’ eyes widened. He could feel the colour draining from his face, feel it like all the warmth in his body drained down to the soles of his feet, where it dissolved into the ground. He should've stood up and walked out the front door, left poor Tim to someone else. Someone better than Rhys.

Tim stared back, his eyes just as wide. "Where... where is this coming from?"

_That's not a 'no'. You notice that? If we were as different as you like to think, he would've snapped it out. He wouldn't have needed to think it over._

Rhys should leave. This wasn't going to end well. Maybe he'd already ended it.

Except Tim's hand hadn't moved. Rhys stared down at their joined hands, a lump rising in his throat, and tried to summon the courage to pull away.

"Rhys." Tim reached out slowly, touched two fingers to the underside of Rhys' chin. "Hey. Please talk to me."

Rhys sniffed. Son of a bitch. He was crying again.

"I just. I feel like..."

Goddammit it all, he couldn't even force out a few words without his voice hitching. He didn't have a script for this. He rubbed at his face, gulped in a few breaths of air.

Tim inched closer, until they were side-by-side. He let his arm rest on Rhys' shoulders, light and tentative.

Rhys' restraint snapped. He nearly crawled into Tim’s lap, burying himself in his embrace. He pushed his face in the bend between Tim's neck and shoulders, breathed in deep the smell of laundry soap and the outdoors, and let himself hide.

"Take your time," Tim said quietly. "Breathe easy. We've got all night."

The worst part about crying was what it did to Rhys' face. He went all red and wrinkly, and his nose ran, and nobody liked watching the way only his right eye would well up and spill over. It robbed him of his voice, strangled it in his throat, made it shake and vibrate like a plucked string on a broken instrument. It made him feel like a man possessed. When it was bad, it took him over from head to toe.

A spell like this, with gasping sobs that shook his whole body, was like a thunderstorm. It could never last long. Rhys' body wrung itself out in a matter of minutes, leaving him limp in Tim's arms, draped over him like an expensive afghan.

Tim didn't rush him, even as his blubbering died away into hiccoughs and sniffles. He kept his arms around Rhys, one hand a gentle pressure at the back of Rhys’ neck.

Rhys closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of his callused palm against the soft skin, the small hairs. He could fall asleep like this.

"I've been having these dreams..." Rhys said, his voice slow and rough, when he’d finally caught his breath. He cleared his throat, sniffed, and tried again. "See, the thing about recovering my memories was that it took a long time. Did I ever tell you? Almost the full four months."

"Yeah, you mentioned something about that," Tim said.

"Right. Well. Didn't that strike you as strange? I only lost about eight weeks."

"Nine weeks."

"Yeah." Rhys thought about pulling back. Maybe having this conversation like a pair of adults. But if things went sour, this could be his last time. Last chance to press his lips against his pulse. Rhys did so, because he was not in the habit of denying himself things he wanted.

"It was hard because... Well, for a lot of reasons. It was hard because at first my brain felt like a dropped peach. And then it was hard because every time I pulled at something, I felt like I was trying to reel in a whale."

Tim shifted a little, pulling them both back against the couch. "I'm not sure I follow you," he said.

Rhys took a breath, an inhale that still caught in his treacherous throat.

This was it. He felt as if he stood on a threshold or a precipice or some other delineation between safety and the sure-fire danger of the unknown. It wasn't too late to turn around. To guide them both back to safety, to the shelter of false smiles and hidden ugliness. Rhys could do it. If he was any kind of decent man at all, that's exactly what he would do.

_Or you could stick with MY awesome plan and just tell him that he's pissed you off, and then everything will be fine. That's what started all this, right? You just want the dummy to call himself your stupid boyfriend and then move in with you. I talked him into giving up his identity and that was before we started fucking. You've already got him by the dick, basically. He'd probably do whatever you asked._

_But you gotta ask._

Jack lied to Tim. He did it all the time, for small reasons and big ones. He lied because it was easy, because it was cruel, because he didn't have any interest in making Tim happy. Jack was the sort of pet owner who'd keep a dog chained up in the backyard on a too-short leash. Who'd buy a too-small cage for his bird and never let it out. He didn't want to see anything thrive, he just wanted to keep them.

"It was hard," Rhys said, his voice gaining strength. "Because all the memories were tangled up with Jack's."

Rhys felt Tim's fingers twitch on the back of his neck. "Oh," he said.

"During the day, I would meditate and try to remember everything. Well, I'd try to remember you, mostly. I'd remember sharing dinners with you, and I'd remember watching you shoot. That stuff on the ride back to Atlas, where we got ambushed by bandits?" Rhys puffed out a quiet breath, his heart picking up its pace with the memory of adrenaline. "That was the good stuff. But that wasn't all that came up.

"I don't know the scientific term for it. I just know that Jack was in my head for a while, and he... he left a lot of stuff behind. I'm still sorting through a lot."

Tim's grip tightened. "You said your cybernetics were clean."

"They are," Rhys said quickly. "That's not what I mean. When I say my head, I mean all the parts that aren't technology." Rhys closed his eyes and pushed his face closer, nuzzling without shame. If this was his last chance, he would take every inch he could. "I dreamed about you, but it all came from him. What he did to you." Rhys could hear his voice start to tremble once more. "He was so angry all the time."

Rhys could feel it when Tim took a long, deep breath. His whole chest moved, and Rhys moved with it, right through to the long, hissing exhale.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. But you mentioned that before. Does it... I mean, what made you so upset today?"

Was that the hard part? Had Rhys stumbled through it? He couldn't tell.

"Because sometimes I get... angry, like he did. Today, with Jupiter. I..." Rhys sucked in a breath, sent a silent prayer to an uncaring universe that his voice might regain its stability. "It's stupid. He is just a kid. But the way he looks at you. And the stuff he said to me."

"What? What stuff? When did you two—?"

"And what Batu said, about us being exclusive and neither of us could answer,” Rhys ploughed on. “I know you need some time, and that you're afraid of getting too serious too quickly. I know what happened last time." Rhys felt like an unstuck river, words flowing before he could stop to think about them, to check them for suitability. "I know it. I don't want to be like he was, but sometimes I think I am because Jupiter was right and maybe I am a little empty inside. Because I love my job and my company, and I worry that someday that's all I'll love. But even if that happens, I want you at my side forever and that's not fair to you, and I know it's not a good reason, but it's the only one I have. I like you so much and I always miss you."

Rhys was aware that his voice had started to wobble like a spinning top losing momentum. He clamped his jaw shut before anything else could force its way out. He'd said enough. He'd said too much.

Tim didn't say anything at all. When Rhys finally mustered the courage to look up, he found that Tim had closed his eyes. He was pinching the bridge of his nose. Rhys' heart gave a weak, fearful flutter at the sight.

Tim didn't let him go.

"Okay," Tim said, nostrils flaring. "Okay. Let's... Let's take this very slowly. Clearly this has been working away at you for a while. Let's start with the easy one.” Rhys nodded. "Do you intend to talk me into giving up my identity to become your body double?"

"What? No!" Rhys pulled back, flushed with righteous outrage. "I would never—"

"Okay, settle down." Tim placed a gentle pressure on the back of his neck, reeling him back in. "I said we'd start with the easy one, right? Nothing easier than that question." Rhys reclaimed his position, grumbling as he pressed his lips against Tim's skin. "Second question. Do you intend to wage a campaign of emotional, verbal, and slash or physical abuse against me?"

Sadness dropped over Rhys like a cold blanket. He wrapped his arms around Tim's chest.

"Never," he said. Tim squeezed the back of his neck.

"Good. See? Two for two. You're doing great, stretch."

"I feel like you're not taking this very seriously," Rhys mumbled.

"Third question. Do you see yourself becoming the sort of person who might answer 'yes' to question one and slash or question two at some point in the future?"

"No."

Tim breathed out. "Good. Alright. I think we're settled." He dropped a kiss onto Rhys' crown. "You want something to eat? My fridge is still pretty bare, but I could probably—"

"That's it?" Rhys knocked against Tim's chin in his haste to sit up. "That's all? You just want to know if I'm going to—going to abuse you like he did?"

"Yeah." Tim rubbed his jaw.

The sadness fell away as easily as it came, leaving Rhys warm with growing anger. "That's good enough for you?"

"That's all I need."

"That's— There was—" Rhys sputtered, baffled. He felt like he'd spent an all nighter studying for a two question test. "There was more to Jack than just that! I don't have to be an abusive monster to be like him! He wasn't just that!"

"I know that." Tim's voice was like a whip crack. Rhys' mouth snapped shut. "I know that better than a lot of people. Listen to me, Rhys. It doesn't matter what else Jack was. It doesn't matter if he wanted to keep me around, or if he was ambitious, or if he got stupid jealous for no reason. Those things, on their own, were nothing. It's only _because_ he was an abusive asshole that they became ugly traits. Because he used those feelings to justify the awful things he did to me. And you don't intend to do that. Do you?"

Rhys shook his head.

"No." Tim's voice softened. "Of course you don't. That's what makes you different from him. And I know that. I've always known it." He kissed a tear from Rhys' cheek. "I want to be your boyfriend, Rhys. I'd love us to be exclusive."

Rhys nodded again, although he hadn't been asked a question. He ignored the way his heart skipped at hearing the word 'love' in Tim's mouth.

It felt too easy. Rhys felt like a would-be saint denied the chance to be martyred. He'd been ready to defend himself against all of the imagined arguments he himself put into Tim's mouth. He knew he was like Jack, of course. He was ready to take his lumps for that.

But, he realised, he wanted to prove to Tim that he wasn't like Jack, too. He had arguments lined up and ready to fire. And Tim didn't even need to hear them.

"Is this what got you all messed up yesterday night?" Tim asked, his thick brows furrowing.

"Jupiter... might've said some stuff that I took kind of hard," Rhys admitted.

"What could that kid possibly say to you to damage that iron-clad ego of yours?"

"Just..." Rhys smoothed down the fabric of his slacks. "Just stuff about me being a soulless, heartless jerk."

Tim sighed. "That kid... I'm gonna need to have a few words with Batu about him, I think." He kissed Rhys on the temple, just above his port. "You know none of that is true, right?"

Rhys didn't reply. He turned towards Tim's face and caught his lips in a quick kiss. And then another one. Tim pulled him forward and Rhys slid over his thighs until he was on his lap once more.

"Is this really all you need?" Rhys asked, a little breathless, tilting his head back. Tim murmured something, his breath hot against the long line of Rhys' neck. "Just... it's enough for you to know I'm not a complete monster?"

Tim hummed. "You said it yourself, Rhys. You just want to make me happy." He looked up, his cheeks flushed, lips wet and his eyes bright. A look designed to skewer right through Rhys’ heart like Cupid’s arrow.

"You make me very happy," Tim said.

Rhys cupped his face with both hands and kissed him silly, before he could say something truly stupid back, something neither of them were probably ready to think about.

They went to bed together, Rhys leading Tim by the hand. They forgot about dinner. Rhys insisted they keep the lamp on because he wanted to watch Tim's face. They stayed in the bedroom for a very long time.

Afterwards, Tim stretched out on top of Rhys like a warm and heavy blanket. Rhys turned in his grip. They slotted their legs together, curled towards each other. The breeze from the open window tickled Rhys' still-cooling skin. He looked out once, but there wasn't much to see. Just a black sky and a few stars.

Tim traced the edges of Rhys' tattoo, his touch feather-light.

"Do I really make you happy?" Rhys asked. Tim's gaze slid back up to Rhys' face.

"Somehow," he said. Rhys scowled.

"What do you mean, 'somehow'? I'm a delight," he said. Tim chuckled and rolled them over. "I'm a wonderful person. You said it yourself, remember?"

"I said you weren't a monster." Tim kissed up Rhys' neck, his thumb pressing lightly against his adam's apple. 

"I make plenty of people happy," Rhys went on as he arched his head back. "And, and I'm a catch. I—ah—I know for a fact there's people working at Atlas who'd bottle my essence if they had the chance."

Tim paused, his nose wrinkling. "That sounds disgusting."

"That's how popular I am." Rhys tugged on his hair. "I didn't say you could stop."

Tim grinned crookedly and, oh, that just wasn't fair. Because Rhys knew that grin now, that expression that chased every last remnant of Jack away from Tim's face.

"You're still not my boss, Rhys," Tim said, lowering himself on top of Rhys. His breath tickled Rhys' cheek.

Rhys swallowed, his throat clicking. "But I am your boyfriend," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "Right?"

Tim kissed him, sweet and lazy. His weight was a warm comfort, something Rhys always wanted. He arched himself shamelessly upwards, until he could feel the coarse hair on Tim's chest rub against his. He ran his hands down Tim's back, pausing at the feel of his muscles, of old scars.

Please, Rhys thought. Please let this be mine to touch. Let him be mine. Let me keep him.

"Yes, Rhys," Tim whispered, his lips brushing against Rhys' with every word. "You're my boyfriend."

Rhys laughed, breathless.

* * *

They would've spent the next day entirely in bed, but the flesh had needs beside the carnal and Tim's kitchen was getting pretty pathetic.

"We'll just be out for a little while," Tim promised while Rhys kissed along his shoulder. He had a sweater hooked around his neck, stretched out across one arm and shoulder. Their latest attempt at getting dressed. "Just one trip today and then we'll come right back."

"Okay," Rhys said, shoving his arm through one of Tim's shirts. His pants lay in a pool at his feet, his briefs shoved down low on his hips. Tim gave his thigh a squeeze.

"We can do this," he said before Rhys caught him in another kiss. "We can—" He pulled Rhys' lower lip between his teeth. "We can do this."

Rhys hummed in agreement as he began to guide them both back to the mattress.

Tim groaned into Rhys' mouth. "Nope. None of that. Not again." He yanked them both upright. Rhys frowned at him. "Quit pouting. If we don't get food, we'll starve."

"Yeah, but... What a way to go, right?" Rhys grinned. Tim huffed in frustration, even as he reeled Rhys back in for another kiss.

"Just one, small, quick, easy trip," Tim mumbled against Rhys' neck.

"Uh huh." Rhys tipped his head back, wrapped his legs around Tim's hips. Tim nipped him.

"Cut that out. We're leaving. We're..." His hands slid down Rhys' back. "We're gonna get dressed." His fingers dug into the soft swell of Rhys' ass. "We're gonna leave."

They left an hour later.

It was a grey hangover of a day. The sunlight the town had enjoyed the day before had curled itself up under a blanket of iron grey clouds. Rhys felt relieved to see them again. He would've spent the day inside regardless, but it was always nicer to do it when the sky looked ready to split open.

"I hope it doesn't rain before we get back," Tim said.

"Yeah," Rhys said, adjusting the line of Tim's collar to better hide a violet bruise. "Sure would be a shame to see you get all wet."

They arrived in Karamay and went on the most focused grocery run of Rhys' entire life. Huang's shop had most of what they needed—including the subpar coffee Tim liked to brew—which was a blessing. Tim hauled what must've been a quarter of the shop's wares up to the counter, much to Rhys' amusement.

"How much food do you think we're gonna need today?" he asked.

"You're staying tomorrow too, right?" Tim asked, raising one brow. Huang chuckled quietly as he began to tally up the totals.

This process took a while. Huang used a DAHL barcode reader that must've fallen off a ship fifty years ago. Rhys stayed on his best behavior while the old man worked, but after thirty seconds he could feel his patience begin to thin. It'd been almost a full ten minutes since they'd arrived, and Rhys hadn't put his hands on Tim once.

After a full minute, he began to eye the store for a quiet, private corner he could maybe drag Tim off to. Tim glanced over, and patted him on the shoulder.

"Take it easy, Rhys," he advised in an undertone. Rhys huffed, his face growing warm. He didn't think he was being that obvious.

"This machine's older than I am and almost as tough," Huang said cheerfully. "It'll take another minute."

"Maybe two," Tim said. Rhys bit his lip. "Why don't you give the store a once-over and see if there's anything we forgot."

"Did we grab the wine?" Rhys asked as he did just that.

"We got two bottles," Tim said as Huang placed a bag of onions to one side. "But maybe see if you can find some of that peach brandy."

Huang's shop wasn't too large, but it was tightly packed. Rhys edged his way through one claustrophobic aisle towards the refrigerated section in the back wall. He had no idea if he'd find the brandy there. It looked like Huang hired a hurricane to organize his shop.

At the front of the store, Rhys could hear the cheerful ring of the bell above the door, the faint rumble of Tim's voice and Huang's cheerful reply. Rhys tried to listen for a moment, but when he heard the word 'sheep', he started to lose interest. He hunted for the brandy amongst the crowded shelves.

"Well, well," Batu said.

Rhys hated how quiet everyone in this town seemed to be. Shouldn't people make sounds when they moved around? Rhys always did. It felt considerate.

"Hi, Batu."

At least Rhys hadn't dropped the bottle of shampoo he'd been examining. He straightened up as best he could among the boxes of cereal, crackers, canned beans, banana ketchup, and soapstone carvings.

Batu filled the space like she'd been drawn there. She fit in without seeming to disturb a single item. Rhys felt like he couldn't raise an eyebrow without knocking over a bag of shrimp puffs or something.

She looked him over, that same scan she subjected him to every time they met. Rhys was getting sick of it.

Her face split into a grin.

"You're looking well," she said. "You and Lawrence have a nice night last night?"

"As a matter of fact, we did." Rhys tugged at his collar, feeling suddenly exposed, only to recall too late that he was wearing one of Tim's crewnecks. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it made him aware of his exposed neck.

"Good. Lawrence is a bit of a pain, but he's a good kid. He deserves a nice night now and then," Batu said. She seemed like she meant it, which confused Rhys. Wasn't she behind the whole hare-brained scheme of setting up Tim as a prize for a shooting contest?

"You know, I was the one who told him you'd arrived the other day," she went on. "You should've seen the look on half his face. Like twenty Mercenary Days come all at once. I almost didn't recognize him."

Rhys chuckled weakly, pulling his arms in tight. Twenty Mercenary Days at once? What could he say to something like that?

"I was also the one who first hired him, all those months ago. Did he tell you that? I wish I could say I'd never seen a man look so lost and defeated, but I've been on Pandora my most of my life," she said casually as she picked up a package of hickory smoked crickets. "It was nice to keep him around. My boy's a good shot, but he's just a boy. Tim's a damn fine shot."

"He is," Rhys said. "He used to be a vault hunter." He hesitated. “How is your boy?”

“Fine,” Batu said. The word was like a solid wall.

“Oh. Good,” Rhys said weakly.

She softened a little. “He’ll be fine,” she amended. “He just needs some time. The first heartbreak can be a hell of a thing, but we all get over it.” Rhys nodded. "Shame about Tim, though. I was hopin' to keep him around for a long spell. But I'm thinkin' that might not be on the docket anymore." She looked him in the eye, not an easy feat for a woman who only came up to Rhys' chest. "Right?"

Rhys shuffled, his elbow knocking against a jar of radish kimchi. "We haven't, uh."

Batu heaved a gusty sigh, knocking loose a sheaf of dust from the shelves. "Crimeny. At least tell me you let that poor boy be your boyfriend."

"Rhys?" Tim called from the front as Rhys opened his mouth. "Is Batu giving you a hard time?"

"We're just having a friendly chat," she snapped back.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Tim muttered, his voice coming closer. "I've seen your friendly chats up close, Batu, and they aren't pretty..." Tim emerged from the aisles in a cascade of packaged gummies, which slithered from the shelf and onto the floor.

"Don't talk about me like you know me," Batu said as Tim cursed and bent over. "And quit fretting over your boy. He's fine. Right?" She gave Rhys a sharp look.

"Uh, right," Rhys said. "Is everything ready to go?"

"Yes, thank god," Tim said as he stuffed an armful of gummies back onto the shelf. "Come on."

"Nice talkin' to you, Rhys," Batu said as Tim lead them through the jungle.

"You too?" Rhys said.

"We'll have to do it again real soon," she said.

"Quit tryin' to needle my boyfriend, Batu," Tim said over his shoulder. Rhys didn't even look back. He could feel his cheeks burning.

Batu grumbled. "Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in a few days, Lawrence."

* * *

They didn't talk much on the way home. Laden down with the weight of Tim's purchases, Rhys didn’t have the breath to spare.

"Seriously, she didn't say anything weird to you, did she?" Tim asked as Rhys gratefully collapsed over his kitchen table.

"Batu? Nah. She just told me how much you like me."

"Oh?" Tim had his back towards Rhys, suddenly preoccupied with putting their groceries away. Rhys eyed the back of his neck.

"She said you lit up like all the slots hit jackpot when she told you I had come to visit. She told me you practically skipped all the way home," Rhys said and sure enough, Tim's neck began to turn pink.

"Is that all you talked about?" he asked as he stuck the bag of coffee up on the high shelf over the sink.

"Pretty much." Rhys slipped his arms around Tim's middle. He dropped a kiss on the knot of his spine. "She did ask when you were planning on moving away."

Tim shifted, leaning back on into Rhys' grip.

"I told her we were still talking about it." Rhys mouthed a spot under Tim's reddening ear, his lips finding an old bruise.

Tim considerately bent his head to the side, the weight of him resting against Rhys' shoulder. Rhys' hands found their way under the hem of his shirt. They'd been inside Tim's home for almost five minutes. It felt like a gross oversight that it'd taken Rhys this long to get his hands on Tim's bare skin again. He brushed his fingers through the trail of hair that lead down a tantalizing path from his navel.

"You know I'm going to say yes, don't you?" Tim asked quietly. Rhys' hands paused. He pulled back a little.

"You don't have to tell me that right now," he said. Tim found his hand and gave it a squeeze.

"I know that. But I wanted to. I just need a little time," he said.

Rhys kissed the bolt of his jaw. "Take all the time you need," he said. "I'll wait for you."

"You don't strike me as the patient type," Tim said drily as Rhys resumed his groping.

"I can be. Very patient," Rhys said, breathless between kisses. He tugged on Tim's shirt, his metal hand finding his pectoral. "Let's put these groceries away." He squeezed. Tim hissed.

"Good idea." Tim pulled away long enough to strip off his shirt. "Let's do that thing you said," he said as he took Rhys' hand and lead him towards the bedroom.

Two days later, Rhys descended the front steps of Tim's home to the rambling driveway, where his technical was parked.

"I really wish I could stay longer," he said. Tim had him by the hand, trailing behind him.

"I know," Tim said. He ought to have known. Rhys had only said it twenty eight times in the last hour.

"It's just, I promised Yvette. It's not fair to pin her with all the work for so long. She'll burn out. I owe her a vacation too, and if I don't come back, Fiona will shoot me..." He'd said this too, just as often.

"I know," Tim said, just as he'd said every time since the first. "It's okay, Rhys."

They stopped in front of his technical. Tim took both of Rhys' hands in his. It was bright and beautiful out. Crystal sky and wet, springy grass. It didn't feel right. Rhys' eyes stung.

"I'm gonna see you again, very soon. Okay?" Tim said. Rhys nodded. He found it hard to look at Tim's face, but he found it just as hard to look away. "We'll talk every day."

This was stupid. This wasn't the end. Tim was right. They would talk every day, and send messages when they couldn't talk. Rhys would come back, as soon as he could. They weren't saying goodbye. Rhys refused to say goodbye.

He sniffed. Tim made a quiet sound and pulled Rhys into an embrace.

"I'm fine," Rhys said as he buried his face in Tim's neck. "It's fine. I'm okay." How could he miss him already?

"I know. I can tell." Tim's voice shook. He held Rhys tight, bowed his head against his shoulder. "This isn't forever, you know. I am going to say yes."

"I know."

Tim pulled back and kissed him. It was Rhys' least favourite kiss of the week, and it tasted like salt, but he never wanted it to stop. He clung to Tim, his fingers pulling at the fabric of his shirt.

The world should've stopped for them. Rhys wished it could. For the first time in his life, he wished Atlas wasn't waiting for him.

But it was. Rhys pulled back.

"Okay," he said with a sniff. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. "Okay." He took a deep breath that shook his whole chest.

He let it out in one gust, his shoulders falling. He looked at Tim, who looked back with a small, watery smile.

"I'll see you soon," Rhys said firmly.

"Yeah." Tim brought Rhys' hand up to his lips. "See you soon, stretch."

* * *

Rhys dried his eye twenty minutes in to his four hour drive back to the fast travel. He resented the true blue sky and the rolling green hills. Resented them all the more when they started to flatten out, a sign that carried him further away from Karamay and its sheep. He wondered if it was too early to call Tim.

After two hours, his mind did what it always did and his thoughts turned to Atlas. He hadn't opened his inbox since his second day at Tim's, and he could only imagine the state he'd find it in upon his return. The road was flat, and fairly straight. He considered taking a peek then and there.

He could picture the look Tim would wear if Rhys tried something so dangerous. Rhys sighed and kept his attention on the road.

He thought about the progression of their peace talks with the Raiders. Lilith had been amenable enough to their first overtures, or as amenable as she got. She didn't shoot the messengers, anyway.

They were a long way off from trusting each other, Rhys knew, but he also knew that letting that big city sit empty was a waste. There were countless people across Pandora that could use its high tech amenities. He dreamed of the day Opportunity came to life. Right now it felt like an empty shell without a hermit crab.

_You idiot. You're leaving him?_

It wasn't as if Sanctuary could stay in the air forever. It’s engines would fail eventually, especially now that the mechanic responsible for them had died. It was better to have Lilith and her bloodthirsty vault hunters within their walls than without. An open hand was better than a closed fist. Or something.

_You don't even know what will happen. What if he changes his mind? Alright, he probably won't ditch you for that bandit kid, but there are other people in that podunk garbage town. And Timmy isn't exactly picky._

Rhys owed Vaughn an explanation about that phone call. An apology, too. Vaughn would understand.

_You are screwing this up. He should be in the car with you. You should've listened to me. He could leave you, you understand that?_

"He won't," Rhys said to no one at all. He felt a bit silly, but this is what he did. Say it out loud and bring it into the world. Jack got quieter when he talked.

_You think you gave him a good reason to stay loyal?_

"I make him happy. I trust him." Rhys' voice shook. "I'll do anything for him." He didn't even need to say that last one out loud to make it true. He knew it in all the places he knew himself best.

_You'll lose him._

Rhys laughed. "I won't."

_You’ll—_

“Fuck off forever, Jack.”

Rhys pulled his sunglasses out from the dash. He turned on the radio. He drove on, back to Atlas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading almost 45k words of Rhys feeling sad and angry. 
> 
> This is the first time I've written and completed a novella without writing out a plot first. It wasn't quite flying by the seat of my pants, but it was pretty close. Which is why the plot is... a bit messy. Sorry. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. I've got another story written for this universe that I'll post in a week or two. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Check out my tumblr sometime why not.](https://nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com)


End file.
